


You Exist To Torture Me

by RoyalAsstronaut



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angry smoochies, Angst, Baz hates it, But not actually because obvi they have the hots for each other, Eventual Smut, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Groping, Hand Jobs, Leading to not-angry smoochies, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pining, Simon has already discovered he's queer, Sorry these are so out of order my brain has holes, Unrequited Love, angsty fighting, bit of a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalAsstronaut/pseuds/RoyalAsstronaut
Summary: It's Simon and Baz's last year at Watford and Simon is being absolutely infuriating about it, as usual.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 129
Kudos: 171





	1. First Day Back

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: I didn’t go to “real” high school in either America or England, I don’t know sh*t about boarding school, and I am not British. So please excuse any ridiculous errors relating to school facts and logistics. In fact the only thing I have in common with these boys is being queer. So. Suspend your disbelief if necessary, and feel free to weigh in on any factual errors and I'll fix it :D

BAZ

* * *

One hundred and nine days. That’s how long I have to make it until winter break. This is the thought that keeps me from jumping straight out of the car on the way to Watford Academy, and the thought that keeps me up at night. After the holidays I'll have to start the countdown all over again, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, like I do every year.

One hundred and nine days. It sounds either entirely manageable and interminably long, depending on my mood. Today it’s the latter (if I’m being honest, it’s almost always the latter). 

One hundred and nine days of watching that tosser scarf down more scones than any one person has a right to eat, one hundred and nine days of listening to those infuriating shrugs—yes, _listening._ Because I have excellent hearing, and the shrugs practically scream at me. One hundred and nine days of him huffing about whenever he can’t find his other sock or any of the other uncountable number of things he huffs about.

One hundred and nine days of living with Simon bloody Snow.

I’m on high alert looking out for him as my father pulls the car into the great curving drive of Watford, but I’ll die before I show it. There are cars and students clogging up the way and the energy is practically frenetic. I’ve never understood why everyone makes such a fuss over move-in day. Once things get under way, it’s not like anyone is actually _happy_ to be here (except Snow) (just one more thing that makes him infuriating).

Snow is practically giddy over school sometimes. Not the academics--he’s actually quite shit at most of his classes. No, he just likes being around people or whatever. He’s constantly _up._ He’s what you’d call a glass-half-full person. It’s due entirely to the fact that he doesn’t actually stop to consider anything, just rushes in, consequences be damned. If he ever had a second thought cross his mind, I think he would probably keel over and die on the spot. 

I went on exactly one date with some boy over the summer and he told me straight away that he could tell I was a glass-half-empty person. Then he punched me playfully on the shoulder and told me to cheer up, mate. 

It did not work out between us (he was right about the half-empty glass bit but that wasn’t the reason).

The reason is, he wasn’t Simon bloody Snow.

SIMON

* * *

The energy on move in day—well, it’s brilliant, isn’t it? I’ve already decided not to think about how this is my last year, because being gloomy about it is pointless. Besides, I’ve just spotted Baz getting out of his dad’s posh convertible and he looks gloomy enough for the both of us. 

I guess this year won’t be any different then, in terms of his moods at least. It would have been nice to spend our last year just _not_ fighting, but considering we have five years of fighting behind us, it seems pretty unlikely that anything would change now. Technically we haven’t physically fought each other for a few years—not that we haven’t _wanted_ to, just that it was made clear after our fourth or fifth fight back in our third year here that if we were caught again we’d both be expelled. 

Plus I guess we’re supposed to be too mature for that now, or whatever. It doesn’t mean we don’t sneak in the occasional shove or elbow to the ribs when no one’s watching, and he has countless other ways of being an arse to me. Sometimes I think Baz only comes back every year so he can continue to torture me. His parents are rich as anything, he could go to school literally anywhere. 

He turns and sees me so I raise my hand and give him a nod. I can at least _pretend_ this year will start off on a friendly note. 

He sneers. So much for that. 

I learned some things about myself last summer, one thing being that I’m queer. I mean that was the main thing--I also learned that I don’t like oysters on the half shell, but that definitely took a backseat to the queer bit. 

Anyway, my girlfriend Agatha and I broke up last May, and a few weeks later I ended up at a party with my friend Penny and just...didn’t say no when this bloke asked if he could kiss me. 

Penny said she’s seen it coming for a while, but I think she’s just trying to feel superior. 

“You tried to kiss Mark Burgess when you were seven, don’t you remember?” she said. 

I did, but I reminded her that everyone kisses everyone when they’re seven. Penny wasn’t convinced. 

Anyway, Baz has been out since he was fourteen, and I had this crazy idea that after I figured all that stuff out, maybe we’d get along better. All those “welcome to the rainbow fam” type Youtube videos I watched when I was just starting out had me fooled, I guess. It just would have been nice to room with someone who understood what I was going through, but of course Baz steamrolled right over it when I came out to him at the start of last school year. 

“What are you saying, Snow?” he’d asked. “That you want to put a rainbow flag up over our desks and compare notes every time we kiss a new bloke?” And just like that, we were back to fighting.

The thing is, I think we could actually be friends if he wasn’t such a condescending wanker. And if I didn’t feel like hitting him in his stupid perfect face most of the time. He’s just so bloody well put together all the time, he makes me feel like three toddlers in a trenchcoat.

I try not to stare at him but he’s really gone all out today. He’s got this flowered shirt on and his jeans are snug and tucked into motorbike boots--does Baz ride a motorbike now? Probably. Just one more thing he can put on his list to make the rest of us feel uncool. Some people think I hate Baz because I’m jealous of him, but that’s not it at all. I hate him because we’ve hated each other from the moment we set eyes on each other when we were twelve. I hate him because he hates me, and he hates me because I hate him.

I pull my bags from the boot of Penny’s mum’s car and she gets out to hug us both goodbye. Penny catches me staring at Baz and rolls her eyes so hard they practically don’t come back around.

“Simon, I swear if you let your weird obsession with Baz ruin your last year—no, make that _our_ last year—I will be UPSET.” she says threateningly. 

I huff at her. “I am _not_ obsessed,” I say, for probably the millionth time. “You know how he is.”

Penny gives me a yeah-right look and gives her mum another hug. Then the car is pulling away and we’re left standing there with our bags.

I look over to where Baz was, but he’s gone. Already inside, then. Good. I want to have this last moving-in day walk into Watford all by myself, without danger of sneers or stupid digs about my tatty bags. 

“I’ll see you at Welcome,” Penny says. “I have to go make sure that Trixie hasn’t asked her stupid girlfriend to move in or something.” And she takes off towards the girls’ dorm.

I take my time going in, just enjoying the feeling of being back and a tickle of anticipation about the year. Something tells me it’s going to be good.


	2. Stop Following Me, Snow

BAZ

* * *

I get maybe five minutes of sweet silence in our room before Snow blusters in. I swear he can never just _arrive_ anywhere like a normal person. It’s always these noisy sighs and hands through his hair and a general air of chaos. It makes me want to hold his arms at his sides and smooth his hair until it lies down properly (yeah right) and tell him to take some deep breaths—but I’m sure if I ever so much as breathed on Snow in a non-punchy, non-elbowy way, I would combust. So that’s out. 

He drops his bags on the other bed and toes out of his shoes. He’s wearing mismatched socks (because of course he is) and grey trackies that are a real distraction given how nice his arse looks in them. I turn back to my unpacking so I don’t have to look at him.

God I hate myself sometimes.

“How was your summer?” he asks casually. 

How was my summer? _Oh pretty dull, actually. Read, watched telly, took some curly-haired bloke out because he looked like you and then snogged him silly and never called him again. Thought about you the whole time. How was yours?_

“Absolutely blissful without you,” I say. “I’ve never felt such peace.” 

He snorts. “Right. Starting off strong then. Nice to see you too, Baz.” I’d almost forgotten how nice my name sounds in his mouth, even sarcastically. Maybe _especially_ sarcastically. 

I don’t think I’ve ever said his first name (to him out loud, that is).

“Well since I know you’re dying to know,” Snow continues, “I also had a blissful summer. Absolutely smashing. Ice cream and summer flings galore.”

Fling _s_ plural? I know--I _think_ I know--he’s not serious but I wouldn’t put it past him to have multiple flings. Multiple casual and maddeningly Snow-like flings, meaning he probably put no work or thought into them whatsoever and still had the time of his life. I’m suddenly irrationally jealous. If Simon bloody Snow spent the summer having more sex than I did (which was admittedly none), I swear to god.

I tell myself not to take the bait.

“‘Summer flings’, Snow?” I say witheringly. _Dammit._ “What are you, a 1960s schoolgirl? Anyway, no one would ever believe that _you_ of all people could maintain the delicate balance of multiple flings. You can’t even get your socks to match.” I look pointedly at his feet.

Snow flushes a bit and looks defensive. “Piss off, Baz. It’s not my fault you’re the gloomiest gay who ever lived. Some of us like having fun.” 

So maybe he _was_ being serious. Suddenly I’m jealous for a whole other set of reasons. Snow with a girlfriend and unaware of his sexuality was one thing; Snow as an out and proud bisexual is not something I was prepared to have to deal with, and I resent it. Bitterly.

It was easy--well, let’s go with easi _er_ \--to manage my humiliating crush when I thought Snow was straight. When he didn’t know he liked boys, indulging my fantasies felt like a dead end and therefore safe. Then sometime last summer he bumbles his way into being queer (because _of course he does)_ and drops this information on me on moving-day exactly one year ago today. Suddenly a wide range of possibilities opened up just knowing that he _could_ get interested in me. There are a million other reasons Snow will never be interested in me, starting with "he hates me", but once that dead end was made into a through street, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

That bloke I snogged over the summer had Snow’s hair and was about his size and I fully understand how pathetic I am without being reminded, thank you. 

Snow is right: I am the world’s gloomiest gay. It’s kind of my brand--always has been--and I think it works in my favor most of the time. A lot of people really go in for that “mysterious and disturbed” aesthetic; I know bloody well if Snow and I were going head to head with getting action, I’d absolutely trounce him. But that isn’t the point. 

The point is, I want to go head to head with Snow in a whole different way, which is now both entirely possible and forever impossible and I think it might actually kill me.

SIMON

* * *

At first I think I’m imagining it, but I’m not: Baz looks completely weirded out when I bring up my flings. (Also, what else was I supposed to call them? I guess hookups would have worked. Whatever). He’s also wrong--I’m not lying. I had three good months of snogging, and a few other things. Turns out I’m actually quite good at it, or so I was told. It’s not too hard to be, as long as you’re paying attention to what the other person wants.

I bet Baz is bloody perfect at it, somehow, even though he’s a selfish wanker. He’s good at everything else, why not add snogging and sex to the list? Plus he’s got those footballer legs, I bet he could go for hours or pick a person up like it was nothing.

Ugh, now he’s even invading my sex thoughts. What an absolute selfish prat. 

The way his face looks when I say “flings” is satisfying, though. It takes me a moment to figure out, but then I realise it might actually be jealousy. Is Baz jealous of _me?_ Does that mean he had a dry summer? I always assumed when he wasn’t in school being a sullen arse that he was out, dressed in one of those bloody expensive tailored suits of his and picking up blokes left and right. If that’s not the case and he’s jealous of my numbers, so to speak…

I decide I can’t pass up the opportunity to get under his skin.

“Not that _you’d_ ever know,” I continue, casually. I don’t stop unpacking, or look at him. It will annoy him more if he thinks I’m not _trying_ to annoy him. “If you ever had fun your head would probably explode.”

This isn’t entirely true. I’ve seen Baz enjoying himself, mostly when he plays violin or football. He’s absolutely ruthless on the field but I can tell he’s having fun--which I think is inevitable when you’re that good at something. The only thing I’m even mildly good at (that I’ve found so far) is cooking and being a friend. And snogging, but I feel like I would have fun with that regardless of whether I was good at it or not.

I can practically feel his lip curl even with my back turned.

“Fun for whom, Snow?” he says. “Maybe the reason you went through so many ‘flings’ is that no one could stand to be around you for longer than a few days.”

This has never occurred to me, and it stings more than I’d like to admit, although I know he’s wrong. Anyway, I can tell he’s imagining a much higher number of people than actually happened--I only hooked up with three people and all of it was fun and no one got tired of anyone in any abnormal way.

I shrug, because I know it pisses him off. “That’s longer than anyone can stand to be around _you_ , anyway.”

“Well lucky for both of us I’m leaving, then.” Baz replies. He’s finished unpacking in record time--although to be fair most of his stuff was already on hangers ready to go, fresh out of his ridiculous wardrobe bags.

He grabs a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and heads to the bathroom to change. We’ve never changed in front of each other, which I assure you is an unspoken mutual agreement and not because I’m homophobic, like Baz assumed I was for our whole first year here. He comes out of the bathroom and hangs his shirt-- _and jeans,_ what an arse--in the wardrobe before grabbing his cleats.

“Try to have fun,” I say sarcastically.

“Guaranteed to, since you won’t be there,” he throws over his shoulder, before he snits out of the room.

I take my time unpacking and try to convince myself that I’ll actually manage to keep everything in the drawers folded and in its proper place this year. I’m 18 now, that feels like something an adult should be able to do. Of course Baz probably learned to fold things when he was practically an infant. He’s the most infuriatingly tidy person I’ve ever met, including Penny. 

I go into the washroom just so I can gripe to myself about how neat his products look on the sink. I guess if there’s one thing to be said for his tidiness it’s that he never takes up more than his allotted half of space. I put my own things out, which doesn’t amount to much. Toothpaste and toothbrush, face wash (which Penny made me buy two years ago when she found out I was using bar soap on everything), and moisturizer (also thanks to Penny--my skin has never looked so nice). 

No matter how much I use my own products, the washroom always smells like Baz’s cedar and bergamot. I kind of like it. It’s familiar. 

Now that everything’s unpacked, I have loads of time before Welcome and I decide to take a walk and visit all the places I like most. I’ll stop by the girls’ dorm and see if Penny wants to come and if she has any of the snacks her mum sent along.


	3. Need More Time to Stare?

BAZ

* * *

I may not be as smitten with this bloody school as Snow is, but I do love the pitch. It’s clean and beautifully groomed and for the moment it’s all mine. Dev and Niall might come out later—but if they don’t, it’s fine with me. Solitude is hard to come by around here.

I start with an easy jog around the perimeter, three times round, and then grab a ball and start running drills. Well, not drills exactly, just messing around. I spent a lot of time over the summer kicking a football around and mastering tricks. Being out and about with the ball helps take my mind off—

 _Snow_. What the hell is he doing out here? He’s heading towards the girls’ dorm but the pitch isn’t actually directly on the way to the girls’ dorm, which means he’s come the long way just to bother me.

I pretend not to see him and keep bouncing the ball on my knees. If I can just avoid looking at him until he’s past me then I win. I wait for what seems like forever before I cave and glance up, just to catch his back as he leaves. I like how his nape looks at the beginning of the school year—always freshly cut just a little too short, with two moles near the hairline and one lower down. 

I’ve miscalculated. His back isn’t to me at all, in fact he’s looking directly at me. We lock eyes and I can’t read the look on his face at all. It’s not sad but not _not_ sad, and not happy but not _not_ happy, and for some reason it makes my stomach start jumping around like a bloody acrobat.

I don’t break my stride. But I do throw two fingers up in his direction as I turn away and run towards the end of the field.

SIMON

* * *

Well that was odd, even for Baz. He gave me the strangest look, like he was disappointed or something, then flipped me off and that was that. 

He looks like a whole different person when he’s messing around with the ball like that, and I kind of like watching him when he doesn’t know it. If he catches me he just makes a face or flips me off (case in point), but when he’s unaware he’s actually really nice to look at. Less gloomy or something.

In the end, I don’t know why I took the long way round. I really wanted a snack and normally I’d just beeline it straight to wherever I could find one, but the idea of annoying Baz some more was too tempting I guess. I also wanted to see if he had met up with Dev and Niall yet--they’re always plotting things together and I’m determined to catch them up to something. Although, Baz _has_ been somewhat easier on me since I came out last year...but whether that’s because he’s gotten lazy in his old age or because he has some smidgen of guilt for being a twat to a fellow queer, I might never know.

I continue on towards the girls’ dorm. Penny is already standing outside like she knew exactly when I’d show up. She’s holding a bag of crisps, a packet of chocolate biscuits, and a bag of sandwiches that her mum made.

“Right on time,” she says, plopping all the snacks in my arms. “Let’s go sit.”

We settle down near one of the big trees on the lawn, and I start in on a sandwich. 

“So how’s Trixie?” I ask around a bite. I should stop talking with my mouth full this year, probably. 

Penny rolls her eyes. “Same as always, except this year she got a posh pixie cut and thinks she’s a bloody model or something. When I left, she was posing in the mirror while her girlfriend pretended to take photos of her.”

I can’t help laughing even though Penny’s problems with Trixie are real. Trixie is either the stupidest person alive or the world’s best actress, because she seems to have absolutely no idea that Penny finds her annoying. And believe me, when Penny doesn’t like you, you know it. Overall, Penny is capable of liking _maybe_ three people at the same time, and she’s currently at capacity.

“Well at least she doesn’t bring all of her clothes already on hangers in bloody wardrobe bags,” I say. “Baz literally hangs--”

“Up his jeans, I know,” Penny says, blowing out her cheeks. “Simon, I told you not to let your stupid Baz obsession ruin your last year.”

I dig into the crisps. “That’s not fair when you get to let Trixie ruin _your_ last year,” I complain.

“Trixie is _not_ ruining my last year,” Penny says sternly. “Because I’m not letting her. I was merely answering your question of how she is, and the answer is she’s exactly the same.” She nibbles on a biscuit and looks at me with her eyebrow raised. “I take it Baz is also the same? I don’t know why I even ask, forget it. I shouldn’t encourage you.”

“He’s the same level of arse whether you ask or not,” I say. “I just passed him on the pitch. He couldn’t get away from me fast enough.” I don’t know why saying it out loud stings so much. I basically couldn’t wait to get away from him, either. I like knowing where he is, though.

Penny doesn’t seem to notice that I sound bothered as she brushes crumbs off her skirt.

“Let’s take a walk,” she says. “We have plenty of time to walk off Baz and Trixie before Welcome.”

So we do. We do a few laps around and then end up sitting under the same tree, with just a few biscuits left. 

Penny looks at her watch. “We have three quarters of an hour. I should probably freshen up and you most certainly need to. Your hair looks like it’s just done a bunch of drugs and you have sandwich on your shirt.”

I run a hand through my hair. She’s probably exaggerating, but a shower doesn’t sound like a bad idea. 

“I’ll see you in a bit then,” I say. “Save me a seat.” It’s pretty much a given that she’ll get there before I do.

I debate going back by way of the pitch in case Baz is still there, but then I decide that if he is, I’d be better off getting back to the room first so I can use the bathroom uninterrupted. He likes to spend Time On His Hair (or whatever it is he spends time on), which is why once the year starts, we keep to opposite shower schedules--him in the morning and me at night.

If I’m being totally honest, I like smelling his soap in the morning. It’s familiar and a nice thing to wake up to, sort of comforting and invigorating at the same time. I almost bought some over the summer except then I looked it up and found out that I don’t actually believe in paying that much for a bar of soap. 

Maybe I’ll just steal Baz’s at the end of the year.

BAZ

* * *

Snow hasn’t gotten back by the time I do, so I head straight for the shower. There’s nothing better than having the room to myself for a quiet frustration wank. I’ll have to get back in the habit of being quick about it—I got spoiled over the summer, with almost endless time to loaf around and imagine countless scenarios in which it was Snow’s hand down there instead of mine (and if you must know: no, not _just_ his hand).

I throw my sweaty clothes in the hamper and put the water on cool; it’s a blessed relief on my skin. I’m still thinking about the look on Snow’s face from earlier, and I haven’t come any closer to figuring it out when the inevitable happens and I start getting hard. 

I like to start slow, although I imagine Snow is more of an all-systems-go right out the gate type of person. But considering I’ll never have a chance to find out, I can take liberties with his methods all I want, and the Snow in my head likes to take his time (at first). 

It doesn’t take me long to finish today. Everything is too fresh: the smell of him when I walked in the room, the biting way he said my name when he said hello, those damned kissable moles that have been taunting me since I was twelve. I come hard but silently—another habit one has to develop when one lives with the person he’s wanking to every night. 

After I dry off I do a little work to make sure my hair looks presentable, and put on moisturizer. I haven’t heard Snow come back—maybe he’s going straight to Welcome from wherever he was. Probably hanging out with Bunce (does he even have any other friends?). I walk out with my towel around my waist and stop short because he’s right. Bloody. There. Looking like a startled fawn, and shirtless.

As we stand staring at each other, at embarrassingly equal levels of gobsmacked, it occurs to me that I can’t actually remember the last time we’ve seen each other half-clothed. There’s always been this silent agreement about getting changed out of sight of one another, my reason being that I can’t bear to be seen half-naked by the person I want most, and who knows what his reason is (although I know it’s not homophobia). Because of this, I’ve had to mentally fill in a lot of gaps about what Snow might look like naked, and up to this point I’d have said I’d done a pretty decent job at it. 

But here we are, and I’ve never felt so unprepared to see something for real in my life. He’s less soft than I imagined and his collarbones look surprisingly delicate. His skin is dotted with freckles and moles (I got that part right) and it’s truly humiliating how much it all affects me. I want to touch every inch of his golden chest with my hands and tongue and anything else he’ll let me. 

_Of course he won’t let me_. I finally come to my senses; I’m sure only a couple seconds have passed, but it feels like eons. Snow is putting his face back together and blushing furiously. 

“I—sorry—you—I didn’t think—“ he stammers. I give him a scornful look as I reach down to my towel to make sure it’s still in place (the last thing we need to add to this mess is for me to accidentally flash him).

“Get it together, Snow,” I say. “Or is this you admitting you’ve never actually seen a half-naked bloke before?”

He blushes even harder at that and has the decency to turn around. Great for him, but he’s not the one who’s stuck looking at the perfect angles of his shoulder blades and fuck me, even more freckles—it’s like his entire body was invented just to torture me.

“I need to shower,” he says. 

I rummage in the wardrobe without looking at any of the clothes, but it doesn’t matter because I’m just trying to keep busy while he walks past me anyway.

“That’s fine, I’m done,” I say, not quite as nastily as I’d like. “And I’ll be gone when you get out. Unless of course you need more time to stare.” I do look at him then, an outright challenge, although I hardly expect him to meet it. 

He doesn’t. “Fuck off, Baz,” he mumbles, a sure sign that he thinks I’ve won this round, although I’m not sure I even wanted to. He slams the washroom door and I go back to choosing clothes, properly this time. 

Because I need to look absolutely devastating. I need him to look at me and get as thoroughly spun out as he just made me. I need to keep my tenuous grasp on the upper hand for as long as I can, otherwise I will never make it through this year intact.

SIMON

* * *

_Bloody fucking hell, I want Baz._

This hits me like a train and I actually sit down on the lid of the toilet so I can collect myself. My immediate next thought is, _why couldn’t I have figured this out while I was alone and not staring directly at his perfectly cut stomach, trying to get words to come out of my stupid mouth_? I’m shit with words even on a good day, which just makes this that much more unfair. 

Although if we’re splitting hairs I suppose it was the stomach that _made_ me realise the wanting bit. The stomach and the shoulders and that low-riding towel.... _fuck._

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

I can’t want Baz. I hate Baz. Penelope will absolutely kill me. 

Although if she does, then I can’t actually do anything about him, so maybe that’s the best solution to this problem after all. I turn on the water without really thinking, and try to get my brain to shut up. It doesn’t.

I hate Baz. More importantly, Baz hates _me_. He wouldn’t be nice to me if he was paid to do it, let alone kiss me or anything else. I’ve had a lot of stupid crushes in my lifetime but this one is by far the stupidest.

I get in the shower and yelp as the water hits me. It’s cold, and I realise I’ve forgotten to turn on the hot at all, but then I decide that a cold shower is exactly what I need after all, so I let it run. 

I was planning on having such an easy last year and somehow Baz has succeeded in cocking my life up yet again. What an absolute wanker.

I don’t know what to do. I mean I generally don’t, but in like a normal, “I’m not sure what my summer plans are” type of way. Crushing on Baz is a whole new level of not knowing. So I decide to do what I always do when I can’t come up with a solution right away--I push it aside and decide not to think about it at all.


	4. Switching It Up

SIMON

* * *

I figure out within the first week of school that Just Not Thinking about this whole Baz business is not actually going to work at all. We share three classes, which would be enough even if I didn't have to see him every morning and night.

So I do what any person would in this situation: I decide to double down on annoying him. I figure if the possibility of me actually ever getting him to be interested in me is off the table, then at least I can make him extra upset for the next few months.

I still haven’t told Penny, because how would I even bring that up? _Oh hey guess what, remember that roommate I’ve been whinging about for the past five years? I realised I actually want to snog his stupid face now. Could you pass the butter?_

Like I said, she would murder me. _I_ kind of want to murder me. 

The plan is to just keep everything to myself until we graduate and then I never have to think about or see Baz ever again. 

I decide the best way to start getting under Baz’s skin is to sit next to or just behind him in every class we have together. That means I have to sit in the front because he always does, which I’m not chuffed about--but it’s worth it. 

Our first class together on Monday is maths and the look on his face when I flop down into the desk next to him is priceless. I give him my most innocent look and flip open my book.

“You lost, Snow?” he asks. 

I shrug. He hates that. “Just switching it up a little,” I say.

“Well, go switch it up somewhere else,” he says. He looks like he wants to say more, but class starts at that point and he’s stuck with me. 

I don’t do anything that first class. I know me just being next to him is enough to get him overthinking things. After class he just glares at me and stomps out of the room--which means that I’ve definitely won this one. Also I got to look at his arse as he left, which wasn’t a bad deal either.

Our next two classes together are back to back, and the last classes of the day, so I have quite a lot of time in between. I don’t have a plan yet but since loitering near him seemed to work so well, I’ll probably just stick with that for now. 

Penny and I eat lunch together, as always. She’s buzzing about her advanced classes as we sit down, but I’m distracted trying to spot Baz so I can give him a glare. I snap back to it with Penny’s hand waving in front of my face.

“Simon! What is going on with you?” she asks, giving me a look that’s somehow concerned and judgmental at the same time. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Sorry, Pen,” I say, digging into my food. “Advanced maths?”

Penny purses her lips. “Noooo, advanced English. What are you even looking at, anyway?”

I can’t help it. I look over to where Baz is sitting with Dev and Niall and of course Penny follows my eyes.

“Oh for fluff’s sake, Simon,” she says. “You _have_ to let it go. If you can’t even get through a single very short, very one-sided conversation with your best friend without letting Baz ruin it, something is really wrong.”

 _Yes it is,_ I want to say. _But not in the way that you think._

“I’m sorry!” I say instead. “It’s just...worse this year.” _Because now all I can think about is what it would feel like to have his lovely footballer thighs straddling me._

“It’s not worse!” Penny insists. “I think you just had a really nice, Baz-free summer and forgot how it is here.”

We talk about other things for the rest of lunch. Penny’s boyfriend Micah, which classes are the worst, who’s hooking up with whom, etc. It almost feels normal, except for the little voice in my head telling me to look at Baz, which I have to keep silencing. Pen and I make plans to study together later and then the bell rings and we’re off.

BAZ

* * *

I’ve no idea what that “switching things up” bit was that Snow pulled this morning, but I can already tell it’s going to be a royal pain in my arse. 

Sure enough, for our next class together (French), he trails in right behind me and sits at the desk to my left. I grit my teeth and decide to act like nothing’s going on; I open my book to today’s chapter and start checking over my notes. I already speak French, but it was the only language option.

Snow is humming absentmindedly and tapping his pencil, which I would find infuriating coming from anyone but him, but which I find disgustingly endearing coming from him. He’s fine at French. His pronunciation is gorgeous when he reads, but he’s even worse with words in a second language, so he’s pretty hopeless at putting together sentences on his own. I find that disgustingly endearing too.

Damn him.

I decide to say something about the humming just to get him riled up. He’s so easy.

“Good god, Snow, everyone already knows you’re tone deaf,” I say bitingly. “Do you have to keep rubbing it in?”

He turns towards me with an eyebrow raised. “Does it bother you that much?”

“Not at all,” I say. “By all means, please continue. Maybe louder, though? For everyone in the back.”

He leans towards me, humming louder, then he breaks into the actual song (it’s Pink Floyd). His humming was terrible, but his voice is actually quite nice. He’s not singing that loud but he’s leaning in and aiming towards my ear in a way that kind of makes it seem like he’s singing only for me. 

I turn to him and growl so he can’t see how flustered he’s made me. “Stay perfectly composed while your crush sings into your ear” was not something I was told I’d have to navigate today, and I just can’t do it. 

“Get out of my space!” I hiss. He pulls back, startled, but then looks smug: he got to me.

“Not up to your standards?” he says. “Sorry, I wasn’t born in a pile of money to pay for singing lessons since I was a toddler.”

“No amount of lessons could help you out, Snow,” I say with a sneer.

He huffs but is saved from responding by the teacher starting class. I can feel him staying huffy for at least the next twenty minutes, though. Like I said--he's easy.


	5. The Inevitable Happens

SIMON

* * *

The next two weeks go pretty much the same way. I sit next to Baz for every class and try to find new ways of being absolutely maddening to him, and Baz is just naturally maddening, so we’re pretty evenly matched. He’s constantly getting under my skin and I hate it, but I’d rather die than dig him out.

For the first week or so, I was stopping myself from imagining kissing him (or other things) because it just felt weird to be wanking to someone-- _Baz_ \--who was sleeping five metres away from me. Also I thought that maybe if I didn’t think about him on purpose, it would help me forget about it. But then, somewhere into the second week, I let myself think about what his mouth might feel like. Just for a minute.

After that, it was like I blew a hole in the dam and everything came at me all at once. 

Now, every time he fights with me, I think about grabbing him and pushing him up against a wall, hard, and biting his lips until he shuts up. I think about holding the front of his stupid flowered shirt and pulling him into me so I can feel his stomach against mine, and then I think about putting my fingers through his hair and taking him by the back of the neck so I can snog him senseless. 

But I was still avoiding thinking about him, well... _in bed_ , I guess you’d say. I don't know why. It's all new and weird and maybe I was still half-hoping that if I didn't fully let myself imagine the possibilities, then maybe it would make it less real. Then one night he was being an absolute git and I stomped off to the shower to cool off (literally) and blow off some steam, but like I said, he’s constantly under my skin. He was still there when I started touching myself and for the first time I let myself think about what his hand would feel like instead of mine.

Obviously I have no idea. I don’t even know if Baz is capable of normal human emotions or things like hand jobs. 

But in my head he wasn’t just capable--he was bloody ruthless, and I loved every minute of it.

BAZ

* * *

It takes a month, but eventually the inevitable happens and because Snow is still insisting on sitting next to me for _every single class_ , we get paired together for a history project. When Mr. Hughes starts ticking off pairs from the other end of the row, I do a quick count ahead and realise that Snow and I are going to end up together and my stomach drops. This is a literal dream come true and also my worst nightmare. 

“Basilton and Simon,” Mr. Hughes says, flicking two fingers at us and moving on. Half the teachers call me Baz, and the other half refuse to, for some reason. I glance at Snow and he’s already looking at me expectantly. 

“Cheer up,” he says, looking cheeky. “I promise I’m not completely hopeless at history.”

“No, you’re just hopeless in general,” I mutter, trying not to call too much attention to us.

“Come on, it’s a dream come true.” He looks wicked, like he knows just how I’m feeling inside right now and wants to pull it out of me piece by piece. “Now we can talk about history homework in the middle of the night. It will be so cute.” 

“If you so much as breathe on me in the middle of the night, I will end you,” I say. It’s low but forceful enough that Mr. Hughes looks our way.

“Boys! If you please,” he says in his prim way.

I glare at Snow and curl my lip at him. He raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, _oh yeah?_ and I turn away.

I know what I want to do to that look. It’s the same thing I’ve had in my head since probably the third day of our first year here, although I was much too young back then to know what it was going to mean, fully. Back then it was something along the lines of, tackle him and pin him down, hold his arms down so he can’t fight back. Gain the upper hand. Later on it became, straddle him and pin him down, put my face into the crook of his neck, move my body against him as I slip a knee in between his legs. (Gain the upper hand).

“Mr. Snow?” I snap back to it as Mr. Hughes calls on Simon for an answer.

“Nineteen thirty-five,” he says.

“Close,” Mr. Hughes says. “Nineteen thirty-six.”

I snort softly, as if I knew the answer all along and can’t believe Snow got it wrong. I don’t have to look at him to know that his ears get pink.

“Shut up,” he mumbles under his breath. 

I can barely pay attention for the rest of class because I’m focused on how I’m going to navigate being project partners with Snow for the next week. Finally the bell rings and everyone surges for the door. Snow and I are slower getting our things together and he turns to me as he gathers his books.

“We can always ask Mr. Hughes if we can switch partners,” he says. His voice sounds oddly strained. “I mean, it’s been done before.” 

But as much as I have no idea what I’m going to do with myself having to actually work with him for the next seven days, the idea of _not_ taking the opportunity is obviously worse.

I shrug, a true Simon Snow knock-off shrug. “It’s fine. As long as you’re not pissing off to let me do all the work. I know where you sleep.” That last bit comes out less threatening than almost flirtatious and I kick myself internally.

Snow doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, same.” He rolls his eyes.

This is the last class of the day, and we’ve lagged enough now that we’re more or less stuck walking out together. Beside me, Snow takes a breath and holds it for a second before he says, “I guess--I mean--if--do you want to start in on this tonight?”

I don’t know what it is about it, but when he gets all stammery like that it makes me want to hold his hand and never let go. Instead I adjust my satchel strap.

“Sure, why not,” I say. “The sooner we start, the sooner we can get it over with.”

“Right,” he says sarcastically. “Maybe we should just do the whole thing over email so we don’t have to actually talk to each other.”

“Well I wouldn’t want to overtax your typing abilities. Your fingers might fall off,” I say. This is half true and half dig; I know how much he hates typing, and it's because he's terrible at it. His neck flushes a bit.

“Sod off,” he says. “Anyway I’m good at other stuff with my fingers.” It takes him a second but then he realises the accidental innuendo and his face goes fully red. I can tell he’s going to start blustering at any minute so I cut him off.

“Spare me the details of your fingers, Snow,” I say, as condescendingly as I can muster. “Save it for whatever silly year ten doesn’t know any better than to try it with you.” I’m hoping that puts an end to it but Snow's already continued on to a full bluster.

“That’s--I would never--why would I--”

Even his hair looks upset. It’s adorable.

Someone kill me.

Snow turns abruptly in front of me so we’re facing each other, forcing me to stop. 

“You know I would never actually hook up with a year ten, right?” he asks. 

We’re not in the busiest part of the hallway anymore, but we are definitely still in the building--in other words there are definitely still people very much around--which makes me feel like we’re being watched (because we are). I need this to be over as soon as possible.

I go to step around him and he blocks me.

I level a death glare at him. “Come on, Snow, what does it matter?” 

“Because,” he shrugs, as if that’s ever been an actual answer. He looks frustrated.

“ _Because?”_ I say scathingly. “Because you actually care whether _I_ care who you hook up with? We both know better than that. Get out of my way.”

He pushes his chin up and sets his mouth in a way that makes me want to kiss the stubborn right off of it. “Make me.” 

It’s like we’re bloody twelve again and the masochistic part of me that actually misses our fistfights comes roaring to the surface--so yes, I will fucking take that bait. I put my hand on his shoulder and try to push him to the side but he leans into it and doesn’t budge. I don’t want to actually shove him (where people can see us, anyway), so I try to dodge around him instead, but he dodges with me.

“Come on, Snow,” I say again. “Get the fuck--” I dodge again, to no avail. This is now becoming embarrassing, because I play football for crying out loud. In my defense, he’s very close to me and his moles are distracting.

He’s grinning now and moving backwards but still not letting me by. “Oh am I in your way? Feel free to go around.”

“I swear to god...” I say, letting the threat hang unspoken. I realise I’m actually getting turned on by this whole thing, and that might have something to do with why I’m not trying harder to get out of it.

“What?” Snow says. “You’ll smother me in my sleep? If you do that you’ll have to do the whole dumb history project by yourself.” He’s got one eyebrow cocked at me in a challenge.

“Not if I do it next week,” I say, feinting left but not very convincingly. I do take a bigger step forward so I’m closer to him, though. He stops short and my momentum makes us almost collide, but this time the football training is good for something. He’s a little out of breath and his cheeks are pink again and his mouth is slightly open--

Fuck. Don’t think about any of that right now. I need to get around him so I can go be elsewhere until I cool off. It feels like we’ve been here forever and his eyes are so damn blue--

“Simon!” A familiar voice cuts through my haze. I never thought I’d be happy to hear Penelope Bunce yelling Simon’s name, but right now I would marry her. 

She appears next to him and gives me a Look. “Hello, Baz.” She turns back to Simon. “I was calling you, didn’t you hear me?”

“Sorry.” Snow says, not breaking eye contact with me. Then he blinks slowly, the corner of his mouth turned up. “See you later,” he says, and he and Bunce turn and head for the door. I decide I need to go sort through that whole scene in the library, alone, and probably stay there until lights out so I can avoid what's now become a very big problem for just one more day. At least until I’m forced to face it in the form of a bloody history project.

It’s fine, everything’s fine. I grit my teeth and head for the library.


	6. Can We Please Just Leave It?

SIMON

* * *

As soon as Baz stalks off to wherever he’s going, Penny grabs my arm and drags me outside, which seems unnecessarily dramatic, since we were both going out anyway. Sure enough, as soon as we’re clear of the crowd, she turns to face me and puts her hands on my shoulders. 

“Simon. _What was that_?” her eyebrows are raised so high they’re almost in her hair. 

I think I might know what she means and I really don’t want to get into it. 

“What was what?” I ask. In case I’m wrong.

“It looked like Baz was about to kiss you,” she says. Not wrong, then.

I shrug and start walking. I'm absolutely not ready to have this conversation, although knowing Penny there’s a near to nothing chance I’m going to get out of it. Just trying to prolong the inevitable now.

She jogs to catch up and grabs my arm again.

“ _Simon Snow_ ,” she says. Two names seems like it means business, so I let her stop me.

“It was nothing!” I say, as convincingly as possible. “Just Baz being bloody weird again, I don’t know. We’re partners for a history project and he was being an arse about it.”

Penny narrows her eyes, crosses her arms over her chest, and cocks a leg. (She has the most cliché “I’m suspicious” look I’ve ever seen on anyone).

“Mmm-mmmm,” she says. “I was watching almost the whole thing.”

I shrug. “So? There was nothing to see.”

“You were flirting,” Penny says flatly. “I know you, Simon. I _brought_ you to that party where you snogged your first boy, if you recall, and I watched that whole thing, too. _And_ I was there for the beginning of Agatha. _And_ I've known you for over five years. You. Were. Flirting. With. Baz.” She pokes me in the chest to emphasize each word.

Hearing her say it out loud makes me weirdly happy, and also embarrassed, and a few other things that I don’t even know. I scrub my eyes with my hands and hope I haven’t turned too red. In a way, it feels good to just give up.

“Ugh, fine! Yes, okay, I kind of have a thing for Baz, I just didn’t know how to say it because it’s such a bloody pain and I literally can’t deal, so can we please never talk about it ever again?” Everything comes out in a jumble. I don’t know why I’m such a mess. Maybe because saying it out loud makes me feel a little like the past five years have been a lie. 

Penelope looks absolutely baffled. “I literally have no words.” I snort. Penny _always_ has words. “When did you figure this out?” she asks.

I sigh. “First day back.”

“And you waited this long to tell me?!” She swats my arm. 

“Ow! Technically I didn’t tell you, you dragged it out of me,” I say. 

Penny scoffs. “I hardly call that dragging,” she says. “I’ve had more trouble taking candy from some babies.”

I start laughing because the image of Penny wrestling candy away from babies is obviously ridiculous.

“I just don’t know what to do about it,” I say, still half laughing because now _everything_ just seems ridiculous and if I don’t laugh I might cry instead.

“ _Do_ you want to do something about it?” Penny asks. “I just can’t believe--I mean--good lord, Simon, this is all just so weird. One of the main components of your personality _is_ hating Baz, you know?”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “Pen. Believe me, _I know._ ” 

“I can’t believe I didn’t spot this a mile away back when you were twelve.” Penny says, sounding half annoyed and half incredulous. “I kept using the word “obsession” to be hyperbolic, but oh my god, you were _actually_ obsessed with him. Wow, this must be the worst identity crisis ever.” Then her eyes light up and she literally claps her hands with excitement.

I don’t like where this is going. 

“Oh holy snakes, we can finally stop talking about how annoying Baz is and instead talk about how desperately you want to snog him!”

“Please keep your voice down,” I groan. “And I told you, I really, really don’t want to talk about it, so can we just leave it? Please?”

“Ohhh no,” Penny says. “Noooo no no no. No. I did not spend the last five years of my life listening to you endlessly ranting about bloody Baz, only for you to just casually decide one day that you ‘don’t want to talk about it’. That is absolute bollocks.” 

She puts both hands on my shoulders and looks up at me seriously. “You, Simon Snow, are going to have to listen to me talk to you about snogging Baz every single day for the rest of your natural-born life.” She adjusts her glasses. “Plus, without me you’ll never get him to snog you. You’re too hopeless.”

I scrunch my hand through my hair. When I’m upset it feels like it has a life of its own. “That's not--I'm not--I mean, I honestly don’t think you could pay Baz enough money to kiss me.”

“Well. You never know unless you try,” Penny shrugs and we start walking again. “He definitely didn’t look like he was hating...whatever _that_ was, at least.” She makes a vague scrambling-together gesture with both hands.

“Really??” I can feel my face get hot as I try not to think about what could actually happen if that was true. Then I get embarrassed about how much I care if it _is_ true. “I mean--he just--I don’t think--”

Penny smirks. “Oh boy, this is going to be so much fun.” 

“Yeah, for _you_.” I roll my eyes. “But it’s really shit. Like, really really shit. Don't forget that I still have to live with him and it’s awful. In a totally different way from how it was, but still.”

“Mmm must be tough,” she says, nodding seriously. “Having to go to sleep every night with him right there in his sexy posh pajamas. I bet he wakes up with his hair already perfect.”

I sigh. “You have no idea.”

“Listen,” Penny says, linking her arm in mine. “We know I’m great at problem-solving. Just let me help you! Operation Snog Baz starts now.”

“How do I even…?” I trail off, suddenly overwhelmed. It wasn’t that long ago that I was distracted 24/7 by (supposedly) despising him, and the mental switch from plotting his demise to plotting how to get in his pants is...well, quite jarring, actually. I feel like that kind of thing should be slowly mapped out over the course of years or even decades, not minutes. Also, there are too many obstacles, number one being— _still_ being—that he hates me.

I can’t think about it too much or it makes me itch. 

Penny reaches up and pulls my wrist down—I’ve been scrunching up my hair again. “Stop thinking,” she says. “You’re no good at it.”

I elbow her in the shoulder. “You started it. I was fine until you came along and had to be all _observant_ and whatever. Pen, I am begging you...please, stay out of it. I’m just going to keep going the way we’ve been and wait for the year to be over.”

“Mmm hmm,” Penny says. This is the vaguely agreeable noise she makes when she knows she’s going to bloody well get her way but wants to make you think she’s playing along. 

We pause as we reach the girls’ dorm.

“See you at dinner,” I say, somewhat unnecessarily, but it seems important to say something normal to get away from the mess the rest of this conversation has been. 

He isn’t in our room when I get back. This isn’t unusual, but of course I can’t stop wondering where he might be. I was actually looking forward to starting the stupid history project tonight (for reasons). But besides that, Penny’s questions threw me way off, and the easiest way to find balance again is by re-antagonizing Baz. I need to remind myself that this is a dead-end crush, that we will forever be only enemies.

He’s not at dinner either though, which _is_ unusual. Penny notices too, of course, and spends the entire time talking about it, of course. I’ve officially decided that karma must exist.

I eat even faster than normal, partly to escape Penny's one-track commentary on all things Baz (it’s a wonder she’s continued hanging around _me_ all these years, I’m now realizing), and partly to get back to the room so I can see if Baz has returned. We keep a snack stash there, but if you miss a meal you’re pretty much out of luck on getting anything solid until next time. I know he isn’t as into food as I am, but still. I don’t want him to starve. 

I sneak a couple of the pre-made sandwiches off the buffet as I leave, just in case he’s still not back, which he isn’t. I decide that I need to go study in the common room otherwise my head might explode. I don’t do terribly well with being alone, even on days when I haven’t just admitted my most embarrassing secret out loud and then had to listen to my best friend talk about it for an hour straight.

I put the sandwiches on Baz’s desk with a note that says THESE AREN’T POISONED, PROBABLY, then I grab my books and head to the common room.


	7. Perpetually Perplexed Orphan

PENNY

* * *

Oh sweet fluff, this is going to be good. Watching Simon squirm during dinner while I went off on him about Operation Snog Baz tactics was absolutely *chef kissing fingers*. 

I’m only mildly upset that I didn’t see this coming sooner, because it would have made the last five years at Watford a completely different story. I mean, really--him trying to kiss Mark Burgess over a decade ago should have tipped me off for certain, but it’s not like Simon ever opens up about anything, is it? The only reason I can get anything out of him ever is because I’m an excellent observer, and then I grill him until he cracks. Which isn’t actually that hard--he’s not voluntarily forthcoming, but he’s also rubbish under pressure. Like I said: candy from babies.

Still, you wouldn’t believe how long it took him to admit that he and Agatha were going out. That could also be because he probably didn’t even realize that he _was_ going out with Agatha at first. In addition to being the world’s least open book, Simon is also the world’s most clueless boyfriend-slash-human being. 

But this is why he needs my help. If it were up to him, he would keep coasting along in this utterly ridiculous and (now, in light of recent revelations) totally unnecessary game of cat and mouse with Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, and nothing would ever come of it.

I mean, really--who is even named that? _Of course_ this is the person who turns out to be Simon’s nemesis turned infatuation. I couldn’t have written it better myself: “Hapless and Perpetually Perplexed Orphan Falls Head Over Heels For Aloof Heir to the Grimm-Pitch Empire”. 

Please.

I’ll admit that I haven’t fully come up with a plan yet, but I’m not too concerned about that. I saw the way Baz was looking at Simon in the hall earlier today. That boy is _done for_.

He doesn't know it yet, but it's only a matter of time.

BAZ

* * *

Unfortunately for me, the library closes at nine, which is an hour and a half before lights out. I stay until the last possible minute, at which point the librarian has to come find me and tell me it’s time to go. I’ve missed dinner, but that’s fine. I’m never terribly hungry when I’m upset anyway. 

All that said, studying and homework _has_ helped take the edge off, as expected. Once I finished with all the work and had time to kill, I went and revisited some of my old favorites—French poets who Snow would undoubtedly think are boring, but who I find comforting and beautiful. I stayed away from the sexier writing, for obvious reasons. I learned my lesson over the summer, after devouring a collection of erotic poetry by the pool one weekend and subsequently having deeply unsettling recurring dreams in which I was reading to a naked Snow in French. The collection was beautiful (and being a masochist, of course I brought it with me); but I paid for it later in a string of restless nights leading to unsatisfactory wanks punctuated by bilingual expletives in the wee hours of the morning. 

Anyway, by the time the library closes, I’ve absorbed enough literature that the awkwardness of the weird hallway standoff has faded and I feel ready to get back to our regular routine and forget the whole thing. I’m also getting hungry, which is a good sign. Against all odds, the cloud seems to be lifting a bit. Then I remember that all I’ve got in the room is a packet of crisps and half a muffin from breakfast two days ago, which I probably shouldn’t even eat at this point, and my mood begins to sour again.

It fully curdles as I begin the trudge back to the dorm and realize that I’m also now going to have to face Snow on an empty stomach--hangry and burnt out and altogether unprepared to handle his huffy questions and snarking. By the time I get back to the room I’m practically frothing at the mouth. Part of me is ready to jump straight down his throat if he so much as looks at me sideways, and the other part is so tired of hiding behind a wall of hostility that I just want to curl up and sleep forever. (Wake me up in fifty years when I have better things to do than be hopelessly in love with someone who couldn’t care less about me, thanks).

Luckily for everyone involved, my frothing turns out to be for naught: Snow is nowhere to be seen when I get back, and my relief is so great that I actually heave a sigh. I’m just putting my bag on my chair, mentally gearing up for crisps and stale pastry, when I notice that someone’s left two sandwiches on my desk. 

I'm instantly livid, because this is absolutely the last fucking straw. His desk is no farther from the door than mine: why could he not just put his own fucking sandwiches on his own fucking side of the--wait. I take a breath.

I think I’ve just answered my own question.

The sandwiches are _placed_ , not _left_ , and now that I’m not seeing red I can also see that there’s a note. 

THESE AREN’T POISONED, PROBABLY. 

_Damn it, Snow._

Something about the gesture in combination with the note makes my chest squeeze and it’s probably just my inevitable blood sugar crash, but I feel a little like I might cry. Since when does he do anything nice for me? I want to settle in and wildly overthink the motives on this, but my stomach is being too insistent for me to properly settle into anything other than food. I sit down and eat the first sandwich so fast I can practically hear my ancestors turning over in their graves. I don’t even pause long enough to wipe my mouth--which I couldn’t anyway, since Snow’s thoughtfulness hasn’t extended to napkins, obviously. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m still grateful) (reluctantly).

It’s actually startling how fast my mood does a 180 after just one sandwich. I feel refreshed and ready to tackle...something. But now, with over an hour until lights out and all my work done for the night, I’m at a bit of a loss for what that something would be. Under normal circumstances, I would have done most of my homework here after dinner, which would have taken much longer than necessary because Snow and I are always sniping at each other and distracting from the work. With a twinge of annoyance, I realize that living with Snow has probably made me at least 40% less productive than I could have been, were he not constantly derailing me in one way or another. 

I also realise that this might be the first time I’ve ever been here alone in our room with absolutely nothing to do. 

It’s stupidly quiet in here without him.

I absolutely hate it.

I hate myself for hating it.

And this is one of my main problems with Snow: even when he’s not physically nearby, he’s always with me. _Out of sight, out of mind_ is not and has not ever been possible when it comes to Snow. Which is why, since he insists on torturing me regardless of his actual proximity, I’d rather he just be here.

Mostly to kill time, I start in on the second sandwich (this time in a manner much more befitting a Grimm-Pitch), and by the time I finish up I’ve decided to just say sod it all, take a nice hot shower, and do some journaling. It’s been much too long.

I get my pyjamas--I’ll be damned if I’m caught in a towel again--and I’m halfway to the en suite when the door opens and Snow crashes in. (Like I said, he can never just _arrive_ anywhere). 

I’d like to be annoyed at him but the look on his face is too priceless. He’s somehow managed to look even more flustered than usual, and as soon as he sees me he turns bright red and swallows hard, which always gets me--just something about how his Adam’s apple broadcasts his nerves whether he wants it to or not is so fucking endearing.

He clears his throat. “You’re back,” he says. 

Well, if he’s going to walk right into it…

It’s truly remarkable how easy it is to get behind the familiar wall of hostility again (I should probably be more concerned about this, from like a psychological standpoint. But right now we have a status quo to restore, and so):

“Congratulations, you have eyes,” I say bitingly. 

Snow glances to my desk where the sandwiches are notably absent, and clears his throat again. 

“Feeling funny at all?” he says. His mouth quirks up and I realize he’s referencing the note.

It's a ludicrous question on so many levels and I can't help it--I laugh, an actual genuine laugh. “You can’t poison me, Snow. I’m indestructible. And even if you did, I’d come back and haunt the piss out of you for the rest of your life.” 

“Lucky me,” he says with a crooked smile. He puts his books on his desk, sits down, and starts rummaging in his desk distractedly. I’m not entirely sure he’s actually looking for anything. “Were you going to shower?”

“Why, were you going to stand there and stare at me like a creep again when I come out?” I ask. I believe that in the comedy world, this is what they call a “callback.” 

He clearly doesn’t appreciate my comedic timing, but something else is happening which I like even less: Snow has actually started to look uncomfortable and is flushing even darker now, which makes my spine feel like it’s throwing up a bunch of little red flags. 

It’s not his increasingly crimson face that does it--he’s always been an easy blusher, no matter what he’s feeling. It’s that now he looks genuinely embarrassed, instead of just annoyed or riled. Like he actually cares about the words I’m saying, rather than just being generally angry at the fact that I’m taunting him. He’s also unsettlingly un-huffy.

I don’t know what to do with that. I need something to push against, otherwise this whole thing doesn’t work.

Basically, the implications of what it would mean if Snow were genuinely affected by me are too much to think about.

After a moment, he says, “You wish,” and throws open his history book like it’s personally offended him.

I snatch my towel off my wardrobe door and throw a sneer in his direction. “I’ll be out in thirty minutes. Try not to hold your breath.”

I don’t wait around to see if he gets any redder; I need to scrub this entire bizarre day off my body. And possibly have a wank, because if there's one thing I can say about myself, it's that I've gotten absolutely brilliant at blurring the lines between exasperated and aroused. 


	8. "I have a crush"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reading everyone's comments, thank you so much for continuing to read! Sorry the updates have been a little sporadic, but I have off until the end of the year so hopefully they'll be a little more regular.
> 
> Also thanks to my sister for betaing this chapter (she's also on here but refuses to tell me her username).

**SIMON**

* * *

We don’t get to start work on our project until Wednesday. Baz has football practice Tuesday afternoons right after classes, and then violin after that, and then by the time we were free after dinner I had so much other work to do that I ran out of time. 

We hardly talked at all on Tuesday. Baz seemed distracted and even though I kept trying to get a reaction out of him, he wasn’t really having it. 

I wonder if the sandwiches had anything to do with it, but I can’t think why they would. They weren’t a trick, and he ate them, which means he needed them. So. 

Either way, this was not part of my plan and I don’t like it. I need something to push against, otherwise this whole thing doesn’t work.

On Wednesday, though, the old Baz makes a comeback. Before our first class together, his mate Dev comes and starts hassling me at my locker. This isn’t terribly unusual, but it makes me late enough to class that by the time I get there, all the seats around Baz have been taken and I’m forced to sit out of his easy eyeshot. As I come in and glance around at all the full seats, he meets my eyes and gives me one of his most condescending looks--one eyebrow raised, eyes hooded, a tiny smile on his lips that turns to a sneer. 

I can feel my face get red and I hate that I’m so easy. 

It’s just, it’s really _intense_ being on the other end of one of his looks. It doesn’t even matter what look it is, because he has these insane grey eyes that make me feel like I’m--I don’t know--naked or something. Anyway, it’s mainly just really unfair and inconvenient that my face shows literally every emotion when Baz is so bloody reined in all the time. 

There’s a seat near the middle and I make a face at him and let my bag hit his shoulder as I pass. He hates it when I do that. 

“Fuck off,” he mutters, looking daggers at me.

I smirk at him and slide into my seat. Admittedly, I’m able to pay much better attention in class now that I’m not next to Baz. It was taking a lot of willpower to make my brain stop thinking of how close he was, and focus on the lessons instead. Class practically flies by.

For French, Baz lingers outside the classroom door as everyone else files in, and after a couple minutes I can see what he’s doing. Clever. Once almost everyone has sat down, he dips in and takes a lone seat on the very left towards the middle. I end up on the opposite side of the room and slightly back from him. He pulls the same move for our last class, and it makes me wonder why he didn’t use this tactic earlier on. I’ve been at it for over a month now. 

Once we’re out, I catch up to him in the hallway.

“Hold up!” I say, somewhat out of breath. He’s a fast walker. He also doesn’t even pause. “Baz!” I put my hand on his arm to try to slow him down.

“ _What_ ,” he says, coming to a stop and turning to me. He does it slowly, with a dramatic eye roll, as if I’m the most inconvenient thing in the world to him.

“We have to work on the project,” I say, feeling stupid. 

Baz sighs. “Yes I _know_ , Snow,” he says. “I’m just going to get my books and I’ll meet you in the library.” 

What an arse. 

I find him in the back of the library in one of the study rooms. He glowers at me when I come in so I drop my books on the table with a smack. He flinches.

“Oh sorry,” I say. “Too loud for your sensitive baby ears?”

“You’re a bloody barbarian,” he says. “But I suppose that’s orphanage manners for you.”

I hate it when he calls the care home an orphanage. “ _Not_ an orphanage,” I say through gritted teeth. 

Baz waves his hand dismissively. “You were in it and you’re an orphan. Close enough.”

“Does that make your house a loo then, since you’re a piece of shit?” I say as I sit down.

“Perfect--bathroom humor again. Thank you for proving my point,” Baz says, rolling his eyes spectacularly. “Have you run out of words already?”

We go on like that for a while before we finally get down to the actual work.

The project is actually not going to be difficult (aside from our own personal difficulties with each other, at least). We divide up sections and stomp off in opposite directions to do our separate research. Baz doesn’t bother to come check in with me after that and after a bit I see him leave, which is quite annoying because it means that I have to kill 20 minutes before I follow him back so it doesn’t _look_ like I’m following him back.

By the time I get to dinner I’m so annoyed that I’m not looking where I’m going and I almost knock Penny over on my way in.

She jumps and waves her hand in front of my face. “Simon! Hello, yes, it’s me, your best friend, you know--the one you almost stepped on?”

I scrub my hands over my face and groan. “‘M’sorry, Pen. It’s been a long one.”

“Mmmmm,” she says, patting me reassuringly. “I’m sorry Baz is such an arse.”

I look at her. “How did you know it was about Baz?”

Penny looks at me seriously. “Simon, love. It has _always_ been about Baz. Come on, you can tell me over dinner.”

**PENNY**

* * *

Simon is a _state_ , I tell you. He’s in such a state that he doesn’t even bother playing his falsely reticent “I’ll deal with this later anyway what’s up with you” act. As soon as we sit down everything comes pouring out. Simon’s ability to talk around absolutely ghastly bites of food will never cease to amaze me.

“He’s just being weird,” he says. “No I know,” he interrupts himself when he sees me give him a look. “He’s always weird. But I mean he’s being...I don’t know, _inconsistent._ ” 

“Inconsistent?” I’m not sure what he means by that but I can tell he’s pointedly not turning around to look for Baz. The willpower is not lost on me.

“Yeah, like he’s, I dunno, sidetracked or something,” Simon says, buttering his second herb scone. 

I have to laugh at his tone. “Simon, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you are not the center of Baz’s universe. Maybe he has family stuff going on. Maybe he’s worried about his grades…” I pause and grin at that. “Actually, I hope he _is_ worried about his grades. That means he feels threatened by me.” I’ve been competing with Baz for valedictorian since day one and I _will_ win.

Simon scowls around his scone. “I’m telling you, it’s different.”

I sigh. “I believe you. And I have an idea.” He looks at me hopefully and I continue. “This may sound crazy, but what if you just...told him how you feel.”

Simon chokes on his last bite and spews crumbs onto the table. He’s an utter wreck.

“I absolutely cannot do that,” he says once he’s caught his breath. “Can you imagine what he’d say? He’d find so many new ways to be awful to me.”

I flick my hand impatiently. “He would not. I’ve told you, he’s just as obsessed with you as you are with him.”

“But how do you knowwwww,” Simon groans for the hundredth time.

“ _Because I have_ _eyes_ , _idiot_ ,” I say. By this point I’m quite frustrated and about ready to take matters into my own hands once and for all if he doesn’t bloody do something about this.

Simon’s just put his head in his hands and is shaking it. “I dunno, Penny. Maybe. I--maybe. I’ll think about it. I dunno. Maybe.” The boy is a broken record.

I put my hand on his arm and sigh again. For the moment, I give up. I need to figure out a plan to unravel this oroboros of a crush, and I don’t really want to talk about it until I know what that plan is. “Okay, you’re fine. Stop obsessing, do your homework, take a nice hot shower, and go to bed. Please?” 

Eventually he drags himself up and gathers his things on his tray and I walk him out to the bottom of the front steps, where we pause.

“Good luck,” I say, and give him a hug. He’s still not used to hugs and I think it’s endlessly endearing how he always stiffens just a little before remembering that he likes it.

“G’night,” he says. “Sorry I’m such a git tonight.”

“You’re a git all the time,” I say. “That’s why I like you.”

He huffs a little laugh and starts heading across the lawn. I debate going to the library to try to clear my head a bit, but then decide that doing a deep dive into next week’s homework would be the perfect palate cleanser. 

I watch Simon for a moment and then turn and head back to the dorm.

**BAZ**

* * *

Simon’s already in the room when I get back. He’s doing homework on his bed, propped against the wall with his headphones on, and he pointedly ignores me when I come in. Normally I would pretend not to care and then spend until lights out sneaking glances at him while he’s unaware. But the project is due in two days and to be quite honest I don’t trust Snow’s ability to come through with his half. I refuse to jeopardize my chance at valedictorian because of him. Bunce is his best friend and if he unintentionally helps her beat me simply by virtue of his being a hopeless git who’s terrible at planning literally anything then I will, with very little regret, set him on fire on graduation day.

I clear my throat. “Snow,” I say in a normal voice. Nothing. I try again a bit louder and still nothing. I can’t tell if he’s being deliberate or genuinely can’t hear, but either way. I cross to his bed to stand in front of him and he finally looks up.

“What?” he says, tucking one side of his headphones behind his ear.

“Project,” I say.

His eyes are the bluest innocence but he has on his stubborn chin. “What about it?” I’m going to knock him right in his thick skull, I swear.

“We have to _work on it_ ,” I say. I don’t have to try too hard for the venom to leak into my voice.

“Oh we do?”

“Yes _,_ Snow, we do.”

“Didn’t seem like it was that important when you left me in the library today,” he says. 

He looks oddly hurt so I roll my eyes less than I normally would. “I had somewhere to be, and I didn’t feel like looking for you.” I’m lying. I will always look for him. We lock eyes and the showdown goes on for what feels like a decade. Then--

“Fine,” he huffs. He swipes his headphones down around his neck and scrunches his hair back up to get rid of the little flat place where they were resting. I find it endearing enough that I have to turn around and walk away. I collect everything and come back around to sit facing him on the floor against my bed. It’s not and has never been neutral ground, but it’s a gesture.

Snow collects his books and laptop and gets off his bed in a way that’s somehow both a slide and a tumble. Sometimes when he moves it’s like different parts of his body are trying out five different ways of moving all at the same time, and none of them are communicating about which gets to go first. He settles in across from me and stretches his legs out wide. I know he’s doing it to annoy me but he’s wearing his gray trackies and all I can think about is how bleeding close to naked he is. I know he doesn’t wear pants underneath. 

“Okay, where do we start?” he says.

“Let’s update on what we’ve found so far, figure out what we need to fill in, and then divide and conquer,” I say, all business. I need this to be quick and painless. 

“Fine,” Snow nods, frowning slightly.

He shows me everything he has so far, which is surprisingly not terrible. I put everything into order and then start making a list of areas where we need more research and what’s missing altogether. I’ve been working for a few minutes before I realize how eerily quiet Snow is being. I look up to see him biting his lip and staring blankly at a spot just over my shoulder. 

This will not do.

“Snow!” I wave my hand in front of his face and glare. “What is wrong with you?” 

**SIMON**

* * *

Baz is giving me his best shark eyes and it completely destroys my resolve. I don’t know if I’d even call it resolve. I was _casually_ thinking over how I might tell him how I feel, but I couldn’t come up with anything that sounded good and now he’s skewering me with his eyeballs.

Now all I can think about is how much worse the skewering would be if I told him. When you’ve been fighting a five-year battle, the last thing you want to do is show your enemy the cracks in your armor. Especially if that enemy _is_ one of those cracks. 

Maybe the only crack. 

Definitely the most important one.

I need this history project to be over, like, immediately.

**BAZ**

* * *

Snow blinks. “Sorry. Yeah. I just--it’s nothing. Here, I can help.” There it is again. That _thing_ that I need to push against to make this work--gone. My stomach twists in a way that is still very much about Snow but completely different from usual.

“I’m almost done, but thank you so much for the offer,” I say sarcastically. If he’s not giving me anything to push against then I’ll just have to make my own resistance. 

He makes a face. “Fine. How much do you think we have left?”

“We?” I say. “ _You_ have a lot, and I have much less than that. I’m going to do one more pass in the library tomorrow and I recommend you do the same, just way more.”

Snow nods without saying anything and I can’t stand it. 

“Bloody hell, Snow, what is wrong with you tonight?” I ask. My tone is the vocal equivalent of throwing up my hands. He furrows his brow (adorably) and his chin has gone stubborn again (somebody please put me out of my misery). 

I need this history project to be over, like, immediately.

  
  


**SIMON**

* * *

I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to do it. I have literally nothing to lose. The conclusion I’ve reached in the last two minutes is that even if Baz hates me extra for telling him how I feel, at least I won’t have to play this stupid, exhausting game anymore. 

“I’m sorry, I know I’m off,” I say, as an intro. And also to kill time. “But--” I can’t. Yes I can. “I--”

“What is it, Snow?” Baz asks. And he sounds almost neutral, which coming from him might as well be a hug. It does the trick.

“I have a crush,” I say.


	9. Shredded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger last time! It had to be done :D As always, thank you for your comments--I love reading them. I hope this chapter is worth the slow burn!

SIMON

* * *

“I have a crush,” I say, and then I stop. I can’t say it. I don’t know why. I can’t remember the last time I wished this hard that I could take anything back. Most of the time it’s easy to just forge ahead, get past whatever it is, forget about it, and move on. This time the words sit between us like bombs, counting down tick by tick.

After a moment, Baz says, “And?” 

I don’t look at his face. “And nothing,” I mumble. “Forget it.”

There’s a long pause and then Baz says, “Well. Unless this crush is physically eating away your brain, there’s no reason for you to be acting like such an imbecile.” He sounds strained, like his voice is being held together by a wire that’s about to snap. He gets up. “But since you’re obviously going to be useless, I think we’re done here.”

I get up too so I’m not left sitting in an awkward heap on the floor. I’m suddenly very hot and I can’t even begin to untangle the big knot that’s tied itself in my stomach. 

The options with the most predictable outcomes were Option 1) Don’t tell Baz about my stupid crush or Option 2) Tell Baz about my stupid crush. But somehow I’ve gone for a totally ridiculous Option 3) _Sort of_ tell Baz about my stupid crush but leave out the most important part which is also the entire point. 

I shouldn’t have sat on this whole thing for so long. This is why I generally prefer to do things without much planning--if I have too much time to think, I wind up with Option 3. Words fail me almost every time. 

If I had any energy left at all I could probably make a U-turn and just blurt out the rest, but now Baz has gone deathly silent and is clearly over this conversation. I don’t blame him--I know he just wants to get this project done and get a good grade on it and I keep cocking it up.

I don’t bother to wash my face or even brush my teeth before bed. Personal maintenance seems like a nuisance right now when all I want to do is fall asleep and forget tonight ever happened.

It takes me a long time to get to sleep. I keep thinking about that odd strain in Baz’s voice. It’s not new; I’m having strange déja vu, only partly remembering the last time he spoke to me that exact same way, like his voice is wound so tight it might break. I poke at it but I can’t place why it’s familiar. 

I’m still trying to put my finger on it when I finally drift off.

BAZ

* * *

A crush. 

He has a _crush? On whom?_ And why the fuck did he feel the need to declare it like that? The way he said it made it seem like there was more to it. Maybe it's someone close to one of us.

Maybe he’s in love with Bunce. It seems unlikely given that she’s constantly haranguing him, but maybe he’s into that sort of thing. That’s the only reason I can think of that would make him look like he’s spinning out so hard. 

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense: he’s in love with Bunce and has no idea how to tell her. If I wasn’t so torn up about it, I’d toast to the universe’s absolutely impeccable sense of irony.

I go through my nighttime routine without paying attention to any of it, and it takes a long time before I fall asleep. I sleep fitfully and wake up before my alarm, annoyingly yet unsurprisingly still thinking about the stupid crush ( _his_ crush--it goes without saying that I’m always thinking about my own stupid crush).

In the afternoon, Snow gets me his last bits of research for the project and I compile and finish everything myself. It seems we’re both in silent agreement not to talk to one another until further notice. It’s a relief when I finally hand in the paper on Friday; it means the end of our forced proximity. 

Then it’s the weekend and I spend as much time as possible out of our room. I spend a lot of time with Dev and Niall and I’m so out of sorts that finally even they notice.

“Alright mate, what are you on about?” Dev asks, after I’ve fumbled the football for the fourth pass in a row. “Your game is shite today.”

I kick the ball hard towards his head and he ducks out of the way with a yelp. I’m about to say that nothing is wrong but then I realize that I’ve probably already ruined that ruse by actively trying to decapitate one of my best friends.

“Just fighting with Snow,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

“Clearly it’s not _nothing_ ,” Niall says. “You’ve hardly said five words to us all day. Also you’re always bloody fighting with Snow and he never gets to you like this.”

“Has he gone and hooked up with someone, then?” Dev asks. I don’t know when these two got so fucking _perceptive_ but I don’t like it. By the time I’ve started thinking about the best way to answer that, I’ve already been silent long enough that it’s a dead giveaway. Sod it.

“I think he’s in love with Bunce,” I say sullenly. Both of them burst out laughing and Niall actually falls on the ground. I glower (more). “It’s not funny!”

“Oh no mate, it’s _definitely_ funny,” Dev says once he’s caught his breath. “Can you even imagine how that would go down? She would rules and regulations him to death.” He starts laughing again. 

“Maybe he’s into that sort of thing,” I say, although I know he’s not. It seems important to try to save face through convincing.

Niall shakes his head, still sprawled on the grass. “There’s no way in hell. Snow would be her absolute last resort based on his grades alone. Anyway, doesn’t she have some American boyfriend? Chin up--you have nothing to worry about.”

I don’t feel like filling them in on _why_ I think Snow is interested in Bunce. Somehow their reactions have made me feel both better and worse. Better because they’re probably right--the more I think about it the less and less likely it seems. But worse because that means he feels that way about someone else, and it’s going to eat me from the inside out not knowing who that person is.

By Sunday afternoon it gets so bad that I actually dig up the playlist I made when Snow first started dating Wellbelove. It’s mainly older, sad love songs with a few of my favorite sad opera pieces thrown in for good measure. It’s so humiliatingly self-indulgent and pathetic that I named it Violin Practice Songs to throw people off in case anyone’s ever poking around my Spotify.

I spend most of Sunday holed up in the library listening to the playlist practically on repeat while doing homework and trying to distract myself by translating _Rebecca_ into French. (The angst and gothic language is appealing, and I don’t get far enough along that I have to be irked by the not-unhappy ending). 

Dev and Niall bully me into actually going to dinner and then spend the entire time taking the piss about Snow and Bunce.

“Ooooh they’re _talking_ now,” Niall says, waggling his fingers in front of my face. “Well, Bunce is talking, Snow’s just getting real up close and personal with a scone. He looks kind of depressed, actually.” 

Dev waggles his eyebrows. “She looks like she’s telling him some _rules_ . Maybe about _homework_. So bloody hot.”

“He’s just dropped crumbs from his mouth,” Niall says. “That’s probably how he’s going to seal the deal.” He cuts his eyes over to me and nods sagely. “Girls love crumbs, you know.”

“Will you both just shut up?” I hiss, and they cackle like hyenas. Dev mimes locking his lips shut and Niall puts both hands up in mock surrender.

“Alright mate,” Niall says. “Don’t get all defensive.”

I finish eating as fast as I can (table manners be damned) and make a point of leaving them there. Dev yells “We’ll come by tomorrow night to study!” at my back and I throw two fingers up without looking back.

Monday finally arrives--bless the days for doing what they’re supposed to and coming round just when you need them the most. Snow looks like he’s ready to jump right back into sitting next to me for our first class, so I intentionally lag again and get a seat in the very back where he can’t join me. He ends up almost at the front, which means I can glare very satisfying daggers at the back of his head for the entire class. This works for our next class together too.

We have a study period after that and I escape to the library. I try to do homework but frankly, I’m exhausted. Arranging the last 72 hours of my life to avoid Snow has taken a surprising amount of energy and all I really want to do is nap.

After nodding off a few times trying to get through my maths homework, I give up. The bell will wake me and even if it doesn’t, I’m feeling sour enough that I really don’t care if I miss a class. 

I put my head down on the table and let myself doze.

  
  


SIMON

* * *

Baz has been avoiding me all weekend, even more than usual. He’s also spent an unusual amount of time with Dev and Niall, which makes me nervous--nothing good ever comes out of them hanging out for long periods of time.

As unsettling as it is, part of me is also a little relieved. I can’t even look him in the eye after my disaster of a half-confession on Wednesday, so having him choose to ignore me makes my life easier. 

By Monday, though, I’m starting to get annoyed. I’m mostly over my embarrassment and boredom is creeping in. This is the worst and best part about having Baz as a nemesis--we are never bored. Any quiet moments we might have to ourselves are easily filled by one of us harassing the other. It’s been downright eerie without him in the room all weekend, so when I see him head to the library for study period, it seems like a perfect opportunity.

Penny catches me on my way there and talks my ear off for fifteen minutes about an exam she has coming up. Finally I tell her I need to go find a book--she looks surprised but doesn’t question it (or follow me, thank goodness).

The library isn’t terribly large but it takes me a bit to find Baz because he’s in the very back, with his head down on a table. I know he didn’t sleep much this weekend; he was barely around and made a point of going to bed later and (for once) waking up earlier than I did. I stand for a moment, debating.

To poke or not to poke? Before I can decide, Baz stirs and sits up. His face is soft and his eyes are unfocused and suddenly it hits me that I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him right when he wakes up. I’m always up earlier than he is so I can catch the washroom before he showers, and we don’t really nap in the room all that much. 

I like his face like this. 

It only lasts for a couple seconds before he notices me. It’s like watching a fortress lock down. 

“What the hell are you doing, Snow?” he says. His voice is a little hoarse.

I realize I genuinely don’t have an answer. What _am_ I doing? I came here to antagonize him and now I’m staring like a complete git because I kind of just want to walk over and kiss the shadowy place between his ear and his cheek. 

This could be the ideal time to finish explaining myself, actually.

  
  


BAZ

* * *

I feel like I’m living an actual nightmare. _Why can he not just leave me in peace for one hour?_ I don’t know how long I was out, but it wasn’t nearly long enough, and now this.

Why is he even here if he’s just going to stand there staring? This is the last thing I need. I push back and start to gather my things.

“Baz, wait,” he says. “I--” He pauses, sounding uncertain. His cheeks are pink and he’s playing absentmindedly with the strap on his bag, which is fucking distracting because his fingers are wonderful. 

“I literally could not care less about the end of that sentence,” I say, sounding a bit more tired than I’d like. I go around him and start walking out through the stacks in hopes that it’s too narrow for him to walk next to me. It is, but he ignores that fact and pushes around me to stand directly in my way.

“We have to talk,” he says.

“We absolutely do not,” I say. “Preferably ever again.” I move to try to get around him and he moves with me. _Why does this keep happening to me?_

“ _Baz_. Stop--can you--I just--” He’s working himself up into a real top level bluster, I can tell. I turn around to go the other way but he grabs my arm. “There’s--we need--there’s something I have to say.”

This is new, but I’m already over it. “Then there’s something I most definitely do not need to hear.”

Snow makes a frustrated noise. “Can you _please_ \--fuck, I’m just trying--I wanted--”

I can’t take it anymore. I erupt. “Bloody fucking hell! _How do I get you to leave me alone?_ ”

SIMON

* * *

This is not going well. I should probably just go now, but-- 

_Sod it. Bring on Option 2,_ I think.

Deep down I know I should probably ask first. If he was a girl I would never do what I’m about to do. Hell, if he was literally anyone else I would never do what I’m about to do. But he’s Baz, and we’ve been crossing lines with each other since we were twelve years old. No reason to change that now. Plus now it feels like I have something to prove. My mouth won’t cooperate the normal way with words, but maybe I can still use it to get my point across. Something like that. 

So I get in his space. Like really, really in his space. I sidestep so I’m right in front of him and I stand so close that I feel it when he exhales in a rush. It’s warm, and shaky, and his breath smells a little like almonds. 

I move closer.

  
  


BAZ

* * *

_What is happening_

_Why is he so close_

_This feels different_

_Why can’t I stop looking at his mouth??_

Our narrow corridor of shelves feels like a tinderbox. I’m still fuming and through my tunnel vision all I can see are his lips, opened slightly, the bottom one redder from where he was holding it in his teeth a moment ago. At this moment, I don’t know if I want to kiss him or rip him apart with my bare hands. His whole body is daring me to do something right now. 

I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

I wait.

  
  


SIMON

* * *

Baz looks ferocious. His eyes are fixed on my mouth and it looks like he wants to take a bite out of me. That’s kind of what I had in mind anyway, so I take his arms right around the biceps and push him against the bookshelf. His face goes from fierce to surprised and he exhales sharply. I want to push my whole body into him and kiss him until we can’t breathe.

But first...

I stand on tiptoe a little bit so I can get my mouth up near his ear, and then I let my breath get there first. Baz shudders, then he lets out a tiny grunt as he moves ever so slightly towards me. 

His earlobe brushes my lips as I lean in and say, “This is how,” and then I kiss him full on the mouth--slowly, with intention. I slide my hands down and weave my fingers through his before he has a chance to do anything with them, and his body comes to a grinding halt. 

_Shit_ , I think, _this was a stupid idea._

Then he gasps and strains towards me, trying to get his hands free to grab, and I want him to, but that’s not what this is about right now. I hold fast. I pin his body in place with mine and bite his lips again and when he tries to take more, I don’t let him. 

This is _my_ show now.

Although I’m not completely sure where I’m going with this, to be honest. We can definitely file this under “Things I’ve decided to do without thinking about consequences,” but that’s great, actually, because I’m truly over awkwardly overthinking things for now, and probably ever. For now, I just want him right here. Begging without words. My stomach is a whole mess of heat and nerves but it’s nice to feel like I’ve finally gotten him to crack, that maybe for once he’s feeling as untethered as I always am. 

Ehh...maybe I should let him touch me. Yeah. I should probably let him touch me. My body is waking up the more we kiss and he clearly wants to--he’s still trying to get his hands free, refusing to admit that I have the advantage. Typical. 

Since I’m ready to concede anyway, I loosen my grip. A second later he’s pulled his arms away and is pushing _me_ backwards until I hit the opposite bookshelf. Then his hands are holding the sides of my head and _fuck,_ it just makes the kiss so much _better_ and a very far away part of my brain is doing victory laps because I’m finally kissing Baz and he’s kissing me back and of course he would be bloody good at it, the pretentious git--

“...right over here,” a voice cuts through my snogging haze. 

Baz freezes with his fingers in my hair. I have barely a second to register how nice his body feels, heavy and stilled against mine, before he pushes off of me roughly and Mr. Strauss the librarian rounds the corner with a first-year in tow. 

“Oh hello, boys,” Mr. Strauss says mildly. “Are you finding everything you needed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to listen to Baz's angsty sadboi playlist, I made it and you can find it here:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/20L4nFLEy3BZHCEoEhaw2b


	10. Dreaming or Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my sister for betaing (still don't know her username and apparently it's "unguessable" so she remains anonymously thanked).
> 
> This one doesn't have a ton of smoochie action but I PROMISE I'm getting there. It mainly has to do with where the chapter breaks make sense so I'm not posting anything crazy short or too long :-/
> 
> And thank you for the comments, they're always a highlight of my day! <3

BAZ

* * *

So this is how I die: brilliantly snogged against a bookshelf and then unwittingly yet cruelly separated by a sodding librarian just trying to do his job. _Absolutely bloody fantastic._

Actually, if I had to die at this particular moment, I could go out a hell of a lot happier than I would have about five minutes ago. 

_Because five minutes ago you weren’t being brilliantly snogged against a bookshelf by SIMON BLOODY SNOW._

_Simon Snow just brilliantly snogged you against a bookshelf._

My brain, it seems, has reached its limit and is now just regurgitating this information on a loop, in a valiant effort to understand it. 

It doesn’t work. 

Snow recovers his composure surprisingly fast for someone who’s usually the world champion of red faces and stammering.

“All good, thanks, Mr. Strauss,” he says. The heat of his hands and the obscene dampness of his first breath against my ear are nowhere to be found in his voice; meanwhile, I feel like I might literally explode. 

“Later then, Baz,” Snow continues, and he picks up his bag and saunters off, leaving me alone (as always) to deal with the fallout. 

  
  


SIMON

* * *

Alright, so maybe I’ve just opened the world’s biggest can of worms, but if releasing a worm plague is what it takes to get Baz to put his hands in my hair again, I genuinely don’t care. 

I haven’t thought this through, which--I know, I’ve already said that. But now that I have some distance, it’s _really_ hitting me just how much I haven’t thought this through. Penny would probably have some words about how I left him there and didn’t stay to _process anything_ or whatever, but I’m not going to tell her anything just yet. 

I just...couldn’t stay and work through whatever this thing is, in a bloody library. This doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that should be discussed in whispers.

I have a whole class to get through with him and I’m so fizzy inside I feel like I might physically lift off and float away. It feels a bit like I’ve taken some kind of un-trialed drug and am experiencing a whole new set of side effects that no one can see.

I can’t even think about sitting still, so I kill the rest of study period by walking around, and then find a seat in the very back of our last class. I know I’m going to be useless and I don’t care. I keep thinking about how good it felt to make the first move, the satisfaction of being the force that finally threw Baz out of orbit. His little gasp of surrender. 

Bloody hell.

It really didn’t take much. I’d like to make him do it again. I want to do more than that, now that I’ve found out he’s not some ice prince. 

I’d like to know what it feels like when I let him melt in my hands.

  
  


BAZ

* * *

The remainder of study period is, not to put too fine a point on it, my personal living hell. The only thing holding me together is the slightly comforting thought that if I do want to avoid Snow, we don’t have to be in the same space until after dinner--which I almost want to skip, but that feels a little like I’m giving up, and we all know I would rather jump into oncoming traffic than admit that he’s thrown me.

After Snow leaves me in the library (I will never forgive him, or Mr. Strauss for that matter), I slide down the shelf until I’m sitting, splay-legged and utterly undignified. My brain feels like someone’s thrown it in a blender and electrocuted it simultaneously; I can practically smell the gears burning as they struggle to make sense of what just happened. 

My poor brain. All it’s ever done is work hard and be clever for me, and all it took to short circuit it was one kiss. But as I’ve said, it was a brilliant kiss.

Suddenly my thoughts rearrange just enough for it to occur to me that _I_ must be Snow’s crush. I let my head fall back against the shelves as I take this in. How long has this been going on? Have we been wasting the years doing this stupid dance around each other when we could have been snogging this whole time?

_What kind of insane alternate universe is this?_

_Maybe you’re dreaming, or dead,_ is the next thought that comes to me.

Feeling utterly ridiculous, I pinch myself, just to make that part of my brain shut up. I know I’m not dreaming. I know because I’ve had countless dreams like this one before and in those dreams, we are not interrupted by sodding Mr. Strauss. Also, in those dreams, everything has a somewhat muffled quality. I’ll wake up hard and ravenous for Snow, enveloped in the _feeling_ of him, but unable to recall very little actual detail.

Right now, I’m practically drowning in detail. The sharp chop as the bookshelf hit my shoulder blades, Snow’s calloused hands on my arms, how simultaneously firm and soft he was against me, how he somehow made three ordinary, absolutely normal English words sound positively pornographic. (I don’t think I can overemphasize how much I will never forgive Mr. Strauss.)

Although I’m having a small personal crisis about going to class, I also literally don’t know what I would do with myself if I didn’t. Go back to the dorm and lie around spiraling out about the kiss for hours until dinner? That sounds horrible. I pull myself together and stand up and gather my things. What do I do if I run into Snow in the hall? It’s almost inevitable.

I’ll probably punch him. Or kiss him again. It does seem like we should probably be past the punching part now that we’ve arrived at the kissing part (or _a_ kissing part--maybe this was a one-off) (God I hope this wasn’t a one-off). 

I’d like to say that I can’t believe he just walked away like that, but really I’m not surprised. Snow has always been cavalier about these kinds of things. What I said at the beginning of the year about Snow being shit at having flings was a baldfaced lie. He’s practically _made_ for flings. He’s uncomplicated and impulsive and has no idea how charming he actually is.

He’s also, as it turns out, absolutely criminal at kissing. I’ve gotten a compliment or two, but Snow feels...experienced _._ Comfortable. Like it comes naturally and he loves doing it. It makes me feel a little insecure, and a lot turned on. Perhaps a bit turned on _because_ it makes me feel insecure (I’ve given up even pretending to understand all the fucked up ways my brain has learned to link humiliation and arousal anymore). 

By some miracle, I avoid seeing him in the hallway before our next class, probably because I’ve taken so long to collect myself. When I get to class he’s already sitting down, all the way in the back. 

He’s watching for me. I can feel his eyes on me before I even see where he is exactly, and I can tell he’s waiting for me to react, so I keep my face neutral. (The five years I’ve spent honing my indifference will not be undone that easily). There’s a seat just next to him and two towards the front, and now I’m at an impasse. Then he tips his head towards the seat next to him, grinning, and I can actually feel my cheeks heat up. 

I guess the five years I’ve spent honing my indifference _will_ be undone that easily after all. In my defense, that grin could topple the walls of Troy.

I walk to the back and sit, avoiding his eyes as they follow me the whole way. In a calculated act of self-preservation, I take out my pen and notebook first, so my hands have something to do other than remember what the cords at the nape of his neck feel like. Finally, I look over.

He’s still watching me, with his chin propped in his hand and legs everywhere. One side of his mouth is turned up and his other hand is lazily flipping a pencil through his fingers. It’s like I gave him a fucking list of everything he could do to drive me absolutely mad and he decided to tick all the boxes at once.

He shifts focus to tear off a corner of notebook paper, writes something on it, and then passes me the note. It says **Hey :)**

I look up and he’s grinning wide now, looking every bit the cheeky bastard he is. I fight back a smile, and I’m mercifully saved from answering by Mr. Hughes starting class. Halfway through his intro I realize he’s telling us that we’ll be watching a movie today and my stomach flutters. (sitting in the back of a dark classroom with Snow is not an insignificant fantasy of mine.) The lights go out and I hear a soft scribbling sound.

Snow passes me his whole notebook this time. At the top of the page in his hopeless scrawl it says **How’s Mr. Strauss?**

What an absolute prick.

I pass it back with, **He’s a better kisser than you, so thanks for that** and curl my lip at him when he looks up from reading it. 

He pouts and writes, **Guess I need practice. Want to help?**

I write, **You’re probably a lost cause, but maybe if you ask nicely.**

**I can be nice when I want.** I look over at him and he’s giving me a look that I would never in a million years describe as “nice”. The room suddenly feels very warm.

SIMON

* * *

This is great. This is bloody perfect. Sitting at the back of a dark classroom passing notes like primary-schoolers is the last thing I’d ever expect to be doing with Baz, but it is _hot_.

We spend the entire class filling notebook pages while extremely _not_ watching the movie, and when the lights come on it feels a bit like we’ve just been making out. We lag as everyone else scrambles to leave. The way the notes have been going, I know we’re both on the same page (ha!) about what we want to be doing right now, but it’s still a bit awkward.

I look at Baz to see if I can read anything on his face, but he’s back to being a statue. I poke him in the side as we start walking out. “Hey.”

“Is that always your go-to opener?” he asks archly.

I shrug. “It works. Stick with what you know, right?”

“I guess with your limited knowledge, you kind of have to,” he says.

“About that,” I say. “Didn’t you say you were going to help me um... _expand_ on that? Through practice?”

He glances over at me and I think he might actually be blushing. “I didn’t say yes. I said _if_.”

“If what?” I know perfectly well, but I can’t think of anything I want to hear more right now.

“If you ask nicely.” He’s _definitely_ blushing now. 

We’ve reached the back end of the hallway and there’s only a couple other people around and a convenient nook where the door to the boiler room is. I pull him into it and put my back against the door so he’s standing over me. 

I put my hands on the sides of his neck and look up at him. “ _Please_.” And then as an afterthought: “Baz.”

He lets out a shaky breath and for a second I think he’s going to back off, but then he dips his head and murmurs into my ear, “Please what?” and now we have a choice to make: are we going to start making out in this admittedly somewhat public doorway, or do we adjust our trousers and carry on to the dorm? Both seem equally appealing at the moment, for very different reasons.

The choice is made for us by the sound of the back door of the hallway opening. The boiler room doorway is recessed enough that it wouldn’t be immediately apparent to anyone coming in that there are two bodies wedged in here. But the hall is the long end of a T intersection, so we have a one in three chance of them passing us. 

We both freeze, listening for footsteps.

They’re definitely coming this way. 

Then Baz steps back with a little stumble as if he’s been pushed, just as Mr. Hughes walks past.

“Go to hell, Snow!” Baz says, like we’ve just been fighting. I straighten and follow him out, trying to look angry instead of outrageously turned on.

“Basilton!” Mr. Hughes says, his little goatee looking even more goatlike than usual. “Watch your language!” He looks at us over his glasses. “Is there a problem here, gentlemen? We’re a bit old to be rekindling childhood feuds, don’t you think?” The rivalry between me and Baz is literally notorious.

We both shake our heads. “Yes, sir,” Baz says. “And there's no problem. We’ve got it sorted.”

Mr. Hughes nods once. “Good. I’d hate to think that all the good cooperative work you put into your history project was for nothing.”

It takes everything in me to keep a straight face. “It wasn’t for nothing, Mr. Hughes. We’re perfectly alright.” 

“See that you stay that way,” Mr. Hughes says, and walks away.

Baz waits until he’s a safe distance away and then turns to me and shoves us both back into the nook. He looks down at me with hooded eyes, one hand holding me in place by my shoulder.

“I think,” he says deliberately, “you need to keep your hands to yourself while we’re in public.”

This sounds more like a challenge than actual advice, so I grab him by the belt loops and go for the highly unoriginal but always effective “Make me.”

  
  


BAZ

* * *

The absolute nerve of him. I appreciate this game--really, I do. I know that a lot of people get turned on by public sex, or in our case snogging, but quite honestly the thought of potentially getting caught isn’t really doing it for me.

Maybe that’s because a side effect of potentially getting caught is _actually_ getting caught, which means you have to stop the snogging, and I really, really don’t want to stop again. I want Snow without interruptions, at least for now. Someone has to draw the line, and I bloody well know it’s not going to be him. Still, that doesn’t mean that stepping away from him is enjoyable, or easy. I unhook his fingers with regret.

“I’m going back to the room,” I say. “If you’d like to join me.” He’d have to be unfathomably thick not to understand what I mean.

“Fine,” he rolls his eyes and peels himself dramatically off the wall. “Can I hold your hand?” I look at him in horror and he bursts out laughing. “Wow, I’m _kidding_. But I feel like I should be hurt by your reaction.”

I could die. Of course I want to hold his hand. I’ve wanted to walk across school grounds holding Simon Snow’s hand since I was thirteen, and now he thinks there’s nothing I’d rather do less. 

“That’s not--I didn’t--” I stop myself because this is starting to sound dangerously blustery.

I take a breath and he puts his hand on my arm. “It’s okay. As far as anyone knows, we’re still enemies. Got it.” He pauses. “Maybe we shouldn’t walk out together.” 

I want to say that I don’t care about keeping up appearances. Who are we keeping them up _for_ , anyway? But a small part of my brain is telling me that if it doesn’t last and no one knows about it, it will be easier to go back to fighting once it’s done. _Snow was made for flings,_ I think _._

I nod. “After you.”

He starts off and I trail after him. We should have done this the other way round, because my legs are longer and now I have to walk at an awkward, stunted pace in order to stay far enough behind.

We’re halfway across the lawn when we hear Simon’s name being called. It’s Bunce (of course). I’m rather glad Snow and I decided to separate now.

“Simon! Where are you going? I’ve been waiting in the library.” Bunce is out of breath.

Snow looks stricken and scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck! I’m sorry, Pen, I forgot. We--” his eyes flick over to me. “I got held up. I um...just want to run up to the room to get a snack. Can I meet you there in ten?”

“I’ve brought snacks,” Bunce scoffs. “How else do you think I'm going to get you to quiz me for the next hour?” 

“Right,” Snow says defeatedly. “Alright then, let’s go.” He turns to look at me as they make their way in the opposite direction and his face looks about as desperate as I feel. 

I trudge back to the room and fall back onto my bed without even taking off my shoes. The room smells like him. It always does a bit, but the scent has taken on a whole new level of association now. It surrounded me as he took that first step into my space, it might have even rubbed off when we…

Feeling ridiculous, I bend my head down to smell my chest, just at a spot where we’d been pressed the closest. It’s faint but it’s there, a buttery smell with a hint of damp leaves. I throw myself back on the bed, willing myself to delay the inevitable. _Don’t go there, Basilton._ But in the end, I’m just as weak for him as I always have been.

I put away my rolled-up tie and take off my shoes before taking off the shirt. I want to rip it off (buttons be damned) and wrap my whole face in it, but I don’t. Somehow it feels like if I treat it with care it will bring some dignity back into what I’m about to do.

As I lie back with the shirt pressed to my face, every minute I’ve spent with Snow this afternoon hits me like a train. I’ve been treading on thin ice in the erection department since that first kiss and my cock finally decides to give up on propriety altogether. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.

I feel ravenous. I wish I had it in me to make it last, now that I have firsthand knowledge to rely on instead of pure fantasy. Lying back and basking in a slow replay of every way he touched me sounds fucking magnificent. Instead I’m assaulted by details, a deluge of Snow parts and sounds and tastes and that _scent_ , all piling up so fast I can’t even begin to separate them for individual enjoyment. 

So I give up. I push the shirt into my face and breathe him in as deeply as I can, and I let myself fall into the abyss.


	11. Full-on Snogged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas everyone! I'm a heathen myself, but I thought this could be a nice treat for everyone sitting at home. 
> 
> I hope everyone's day is made a little warmer by our two silly smitten boys :)
> 
> Thank you as always to my sister for the beta, and for all your lovely comments!

PENNY

* * *

I’m so annoyed at Simon for forgetting our study session that it doesn’t even register that he's acting strangely until we sit down. I close the door to the little study room and give him his snacks (a packet of crisps and a jam tart I saved from breakfast), and it’s only then that I notice that he’s practically vibrating out of his seat. I decide to ignore it and try to stay on track.

I hand him my notecards and start to explain what we’re doing, but it’s immediately apparent that he’s not going to be able to focus.

“Alright, what happened?” I ask, mainly because the faster he tells me the faster we can get down to business. I do want to know, really I do--I just also need to study.

“Baz and I--” he says around a mouthful of tart, but he’s grinning so wide he can’t even finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to; there’s only one thing he can mean.

“ _What?”_ This wasn’t at all what I was expecting and I actually get up so I can put my hands on his shoulders and look him in the face. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

He can’t stop smiling and honestly now I can’t either. “Full-on snogged,” he says.

“Holy fluff, you did it! Without my help!” I’m flabbergasted, and very pleased. “How was it?”

“Absolutely brilliant,” he says. “It was--yeah. I mean, he’s really good at it. It was really hot. We got interrupted, though.” He actually blushes a little. 

“So now what?” I ask. I know he’s not going to have an answer but I have to ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.” I knew it. “We still hate each other as far as anyone knows. Do we just like...start dating instead? Seems weird.” He starts in on the crisps.

“It’s not weird, you’ve been obsessed with each other for years,” I say for the hundredth time.

“I dunno.” He ruffles his hair. “I guess we’ll just keep hooking up and see what happens. I mean…” he trails off.

“What?”

“If he wants to. Keep hooking up.” He looks worried.

“Well you’ll have to talk to him about it, sooner rather than later probably,” I say. “Somehow I don’t feel like Baz is much of a ‘go with the flow’ type of person.”

He sighs. “Yeah. He does like to have things in order.”

“Don’t worry about it yet. Just keep it in the back of your mind, and you’ll know when to bring it up. But you do have to bring it up.” I give his arm a pat. “Now, I’m so glad this happened but I also really need to study.”

“Yeah ok, sorry!” He snaps to attention and holds out his hands for my notecards. “Alright. Let’s go then.”

We actually get a surprising amount of work done. I was expecting to have to bring him back to earth every few minutes, but he’s on his best behavior. I can tell he’s impatient to get back to his room (read: Baz) so I try not to keep him for any longer than absolutely necessary. Even so, by the time we’re done it’s time for dinner and I’m absolutely famished.

Simon is bouncing all over the place on the way to the dining hall, like a big puppy. I love seeing him like this, in the beginning stages of a new relationship. He’s bubbly and annoying and it’s like his skin actually glows from the inside out. He’s also about a thousand times more scatterbrained than usual, but it’s kind of endearing. I can’t help but wonder how Baz will manage it. I think he’s probably in more trouble than he realizes--people often find Simon appealing simply because he truly doesn’t understand his own appeal. I watched it happen three times in a row this summer. 

We linger even longer than usual over dinner because Simon goes back for thirds--apparently one of the side effects of spending the afternoon snogging is that it’s made him even hungrier than usual. Baz is also notably absent, which immediately becomes a hot topic of conversation. In the whole five-plus years I’ve known Simon, I swear I’ve not gone thirty minutes without talking about Baz, and I guess that’s not about to change even though everything else has. 

“Do you think I should worry?” He asks, looking up from his Yorkshire pudding. 

I actually kind of do, but I don’t want to dampen his mood. “Maybe he’s just studying and lost track of time,” I say. “You’ve said yourself he’s not as into food as you are.”

Simon shrugs. “I’ll get him some sandwiches just in case.”

“Get some for yourself, too,” I say. “If the past hour has been any indication, you’re going to be starving again in twenty minutes.”

  
  


BAZ

* * *

I wake up slowly and in a fog. The room is dark and I’m curled on my side with my head on the shirt and a crumpled tissue near my hand, although at least I had the good sense to tuck myself away after…

 _Jesus H. Christ, I’ve never come so hard in my life_. And carelessly, too--I must have been more exhausted than I realized to fall asleep without moving. I feel groggy but refreshed, finally. And now I don’t have to keep tiring myself out by avoiding Snow, since we’ve cleared that whole thing up. (I think. I still don’t know what this is, but at least he wanted to come back here with me earlier, so. That’s something.)

I’m startled by my stomach growling, and Snow isn’t back yet, which bodes well for the dining hall still being open. I check my watch: 7:21. Dinner closes in nine minutes. I scramble into a different shirt, do a quick check to make sure I haven’t got any pillow wrinkles etched into my face, and leave the dorm at an almost-run. It’s not a very dignified pace but I’ve decided I’m willing to sacrifice my dignity in favor of not being hangry when Snow gets back.

It’s not quite 7:25 when I arrive, but they’ve already closed the doors. It sounds like there are only a few students left inside, but once doors are closed they only let people out, not in. I’m just about to throw a tantrum in my head and stomp off back to the dorm, when one of the doors opens and Snow and Bunce walk out, laughing.

From the look on Bunce’s face when she sees me, I know immediately that Snow told her we snogged. I’m not sure how to proceed from here. It doesn’t feel like we should all walk together like chums back to the dorms, but it definitely doesn’t feel like I should pretend nothing happened.

I’m still frozen in place when Snow takes a bite out of the sandwich he’s holding and then offers it to me, grinning. Bunce rolls her eyes and mutters “hopeless.” I have to agree.

“I got you some unbitten ones too,” Snow says, gesturing to his bag. “You know--in case you didn’t make it. A turkey and a roast beef.” He’s turned a bit pink and suddenly that old annoying phrase “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” makes a lot more sense to me.

“Thanks,” I say, much more gruffly than I actually feel. 

“I’ll walk you as far as the doors but then I have to split,” Bunce says abruptly. “I’m going back to the library to avoid Trixie and Keris for as long as possible.” 

God bless Penelope Bunce.

We walk out together (which takes all of ninety seconds) and Bunce hugs Simon and whispers something to him that makes him roll his eyes. Then she waves stiffly at me as she walks away, and we set off in the opposite direction. I think about what Snow said earlier about holding hands and my stomach flips a little.

“Do you want a sandwich now?” he asks. “Also where were you?” He’s still smiling with one side of his mouth. It’s disgustingly adorable.

“Some of us are actually civilized--I’ll wait until I can sit down,” I say, and then add, “And I fell asleep.”

Snow laughs. “I don’t think I could have slept if you paid me.” He shoots me a glance. “I was...you know.”

“No I don’t, actually.” I say. I actually don’t.

“Just...I don’t know. Giddy,” Snow says, tucking his chin and not looking at me.

“ _Giddy?”_ It comes out a little accusatory but I’m actually just flabbergasted. _Giddy?_

Snow bumps me with his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“ _You_ shut up.” I bump him back and he tries tickling me but I have football reflexes on my side. He runs after me and tries to jump on my back, and then he’s climbing and clinging to me with his legs thrown around my hips, laughing into my neck. I grab him under the thighs to keep him in place.

“How about we go back and _not_ do our homework?” he says against my ear. For once, I can’t think of a thing to say so I just twist my head and kiss him. He gets the point.

  
  


SIMON

* * *

I love this. I haven’t had this much of my body on this much of Baz’s body since the last time we were in a fistfight, which was four years ago. He feels so different now. I wrap my limbs around him and nose at his neck until we get to the dorm steps and he dumps me off, looking sullen but also pleased. 

As soon as we get in we both take off our shoes and I chuck aside my bag, and then there’s an awkward moment where we both don’t know where to sit. Separate desks or separate beds feels weird, but same bed feels even weirder. Finally Baz crosses to the space between our beds and slides down with his back up against the side of his and his knees up. It’s a good compromise. I sit across from him and give him his sandwiches and then stare at him while he takes his first bites.

Finally he snaps. “Stop watching me,” he says, glowering. 

“Nah,” I say. “I gave you the sandwiches, I get to watch.”

He rolls his eyes around a mouthful of roast beef and swallows before he says, “Well at least you’ll get to see what good manners look like. Take notes.”

“Pretentious git.” I reach out and toe him in the arse cheek and he yelps and then starts coughing when his bite goes down the wrong way. “Don’t choke, it’s bad manners.” I smirk.

He puts his plate aside and dives at me, pushing me over and kneeling on either side of my hips as he pins my shoulders to the floor. He looks ferocious again but he’s also smiling.

“Tell me again about bad manners, Snow,” he says.

“Pinning your roommate-who-you’re-also-snogging on the floor is pretty bad manners,” I grin. I’m not even trying to fight back. 

“Yeah?” He lowers his face close to mine so I can feel his breath when he says, “But what are you going to do about it?”

And _this_ \--this not-fighting fighting--is pretty much my favorite now. We’re in our element when we’re at odds. Just, with everything suddenly different I also get to do things like: lift up and bite his lip to get his attention and then kiss him as hard as I can. He resists for half a second and then moves his hands to my hair again and I want to tell him I’ve been waiting all day for that, but the other things I’m doing with my mouth seem more important.

He’s a really lovely kisser. Actually, _lovely_ isn’t the word--he has too much of an edge for that. I think if I had parents, they’d take one look at Basilton Grimm-Pitch and tell me I can’t go out with him because he looks like trouble, and they’d be right. 

And now he’s _my_ trouble. Also it’s my turn to be on top. 

BAZ

* * *

It turns out that tussling with Snow while we snog is just as good as I always imagined. He’s trying to tickle me and throw me off-kilter and then we’re rolling around--as much as we can in the narrow corridor between the beds--until finally he gets me under him and goes straight for my mouth again.

Even though I’m technically at a disadvantage, I have unobstructed access to his body and I take the opportunity to slide my hands down his torso and settle on his waist. He’s dense and warm and feels so unmistakably _Simon_. His scent is all over me again and that alone would be enough to do it, but I’m suddenly also remembering what I did with his shirt earlier, and I don’t stand a chance. I get hard so fast it’s almost painful and for once I regret wearing such snug trousers. 

Snow sits up and back on my hips, panting slightly. His cheeks are flushed and his curls are all over the place and his mouth--fuck. His lips are red and they look so _used_. (Thinking about that makes me even harder--although, _how is that even possible--_ but regardless, I shift away from him a bit, in case it makes him uncomfortable.) 

His thighs are pressed around mine, solid and sure, and I use them as leverage so I can sit up and pull his face back to mine. I think the word one might use to describe it is “imploringly,” but at this moment I absolutely could not care less about the embarrassing adjectives. I would do anything he asked of me right now. 

I would do anything he asked of me ever, full stop. 

But then his arms are struggling between us and he moves away slightly so he can pull his jumper up over his head and throw it onto his bed, and fuck. 

_Fuck_. Are we doing this? Are we actually about to take our clothes off? I have no pride--I will readily admit I’m absolutely desperate to see Simon Snow naked, but the implications of that are almost unbearable. 

I feel unprepared. 

I want to be good for him. I should tell him I’m new at this. 

(I don’t even have any condoms.) 

For fuck’s sake.

Something must show in my face because he looks confused and then realization dawns.

“Oh god, Baz--no--I didn’t mean--,” he says. He’s still a little breathless (it’s lovely). “I’m sorry--I’m not trying to--you know--er, ‘get naked’ right now. I’m just really hot.” 

I’ve never been so relieved and so disappointed at the same time. 

And I can’t help it: I raise an eyebrow at him and smirk at his comment. “Yeah, you well are.” 

Then we both start giggling and he puts his head into the crook of my neck and laughs and laughs and I don’t know what I did to deserve any of this but I decide (for the moment) not to question it. He draws a shaky breath into my shoulder, and then pushes his nose behind my ear and bites. At this angle, the two moles on his neck are conveniently close, so I lean in to kiss them, then lick them just to see what happens.

He shivers and sighs. Bloody hell.

With the jumper off and just our shirts between us, I can feel the heat of his chest against mine and suddenly this--the “mostly just the top half of our bodies pressed together” thing--is not enough. I lift through my thighs and flip us over—and alright, this is a big advantage of having long legs, I’ve just discovered. I file that away for later.

He makes a surprised noise as I roll him onto his back and lace our fingers together above his head. The upper hand feels even better than I thought it would, and I allow myself to feel smug about this one victory. Thirteen-year-old Baz would never have believed me if I told him one day I’d be pinning down a willing Simon Snow just so I could snog him. 

He lets me hold his arms captive but hooks a leg around me and pulls my body towards him. It catches me off guard and I loosen my hold enough that he pulls out of my grip. Immediately, his hands are in my hair and he’s tugging me down to his mouth again, leg still wrapped around me like a stubborn vine. 

I’m shying away from the push of his hips, still painfully conscious of how hard I am—as if him feeling it would destroy the last shred of poise I’m trying to maintain. But it’s always a losing battle with him, and when he finally succeeds in getting our bodies together, my erection pushes into his hip crease. 

There’s no pretending it didn’t happen. 

Bloody hell. 

I start to pull away but then Snow adjusts himself against me, and my brain fizzles out as I feel how hard he is too. I hadn’t really thought about that as a possibility. I know we spent the afternoon on and off attached at the face, just--there’s a difference between kissing someone and getting a raging boner because you’re kissing someone. 

He presses up into me, and his kisses get wider as he grins. I know this game, though: we’ve been playing it for as long as we’ve known each other. He’s upped the ante--literally increased the pressure--so by the laws of our very existence I’m required to one-up him right back. Slowly, in the most obnoxiously deliberate way possible, I grind against him as I grab his lower lip in my teeth. 

His response is immediate as he breathes “ _Fuuuck_ ” into my mouth and his fists clench in my hair.

“Mmm what was that?” I ask, pulling my hips away. I know he can feel my smirk without even looking.

He huffs and thrusts up (a little desperately if you ask me). “Feels good,” he growls. Then he separates his face from mine and pushes my hair up on one side so he can bite my neck, which makes me actually whine. 

I was really hoping I wouldn’t make those kinds of sounds (loud, needy) this soon in the game, but Snow whispers “yes” into my ear and tightens his grip, so maybe he likes the noises. When his tongue brushes my collarbone I let myself moan again (it takes very little effort) and sure enough, he pushes into me and sighs. Definitely the noises, then.

I will never, ever get tired of this. 

Whatever “this” is. 

It could be nothing. 

It definitely doesn’t feel like nothing. 

But what if it only doesn’t feel like nothing to _me_ , the lovestruck idiot?

This is probably the easiest thing in the world for Snow. 

_Enough,_ Basilton.

I will not overthink this. Not when I have Snow moving against me like this, like his main purpose in life is to turn me on, like he wants to push himself into my skin and light me up from the inside. Not when he could get me to commit any number of crimes just by doing that thing he’s doing right now with his teeth on my neck.

The least I can do for us is turn my brain off for the next...however long we decide to do this, and just let us do it. 

  
  


SIMON

* * *

Baz losing his shit and moaning into my ear is quite possibly the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I love making him feel good. Everything is so easy to muck up when you have to put it into words--it’s a bloody relief to do something where all I need is my body. Something I’m good at, too.

It’s also very satisfying to be the one who’s got _Baz_ at a loss for words. I’ll definitely be bringing that up later. 

The neck biting really got him. Part of me wishes I was back on top so I could have easier access, but considering one of my main fantasies for the past two months has been to have at least one of my legs wrapped around him, I’m not about to complain. I love how he sat up with me, like he couldn’t stand _not_ kissing me for even a minute. Thinking about it makes my stomach jump.

His trousers are infuriating. I can feel how hard he is (he’s slowly rolling himself against me and _fuck_ it’s so good) but the bloody things are so snug that it’s impossible to know what he feels like, fully. Right now it’s just this purposeful hot place, but I’m dying to know if he looks and feels like what I’ve imagined. 

I don’t think he’s ready quite yet. He looked downright panicky when I took my jumper off. But that’s fine because everything we’re doing right now is perfect. Right now we’re just going to keep grabbing at each other and dry humping like there’s no tomorrow because we have five years of sexual frustration under our belts ( _literally_ ), and Christ it’s good to b—

My brain shorts out as Baz slides his fingers under my shirt and puts a hand around my ribs. He starts making these slow, intentional movements with his thumb and good god—even though I already bloody well knew he’s good with his fingers—I mean, I’ve watched him play violin—it takes me by surprise. Somehow his hands feel cool, even though I personally feel like I’m about three seconds away from melting completely. 

I want more. 

I wrap my other leg around him so now he’s fully between my thighs and suddenly the way we’re rubbing up against each other feels way more like sex. Not the friction itself; that didn’t really change. It’s just, now we’re in an _actual_ sex position and I guess the reality of that hits us pretty hard because we both make some noises, and then Baz mumbles “Christ” and digs his fingers into my waist and I kind of want to die. 

If I’m being totally honest, dying with my legs wrapped around Baz wouldn’t be a bad way to go. His hair is falling around my face and he’s pressing into me and hitting all the right buttons, kissing-wise. Then he reaches back and grabs my hands off his body so he can pin down my wrists near my head, and I’m fucking done. 

He can do whatever he wants to me. I want him to. I strain up against him, trying to let him know just how bloody much I love this. I push against his hands and hope he understands.

BAZ

* * *

Snow is straining against my hands and his breathing has turned...urgent. It’s still intoxicating having him pinned like this. I’ve been waiting to get him under me for five years and it is without question worth every minute of that time. 

Then I start to second guess his signals. Is he play-struggling or serious-struggling? I don’t want him to feel _powerless_ \--well, actually yes, that’s exactly what I want. But not if he doesn’t also want it. 

I let go of him and pull back a bit so I can see his expression. “Fuck, I’m sorry, are you--” 

Snow whines in protest as he tightens his thighs ( _JesusfuckingChrist)_ and grabs the sides of my collar and I’ve just collapsed back onto his mouth when there’s a loud knock on the door.


	12. Can I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my sister for beta-ing even though it's getting increasingly more embarrassing now that we're up to the smutty stuff but OH WELL.
> 
> And thanks to everyone who left such beautiful comments on the last chapter--it makes me so happy to read them :)
> 
> Happy New Year and hope you enjoy the smoochies!

BAZ

* * *

Snow freezes under me and I hurl myself off of him so fast I almost fall on my arse. Luckily I’m nothing if not athletic, as well as living in constant fear of irreparably damaging my dignity, so I catch myself and end up rolling up to land rather gracefully on my feet. 

_Who the hell is here?_

At least the interruption scared my erection away. That’s something.

Snow sits up. His eyes are wide and he looks like he has no idea what he should be feeling right now. His face is making about seven different expressions at once and it’s so sweet that even through my own panic, I can feel my stomach start doing flips. 

I have the wherewithal to say “Who is it?” towards the door so whoever’s on the other side won’t get suspicious about there being a weird silence, and we both start frantically fixing our hair and getting our clothes sorted. Snow avoids my eyes and tries to adjust himself while his cheeks get increasingly redder. Of course _of course_ he’s still hard. It's somewhat disappointing yet absolutely unsurprising that my arousal would choose to flee the scene like startled fawn while Snow's persists. This is us in a nutshell.

“It’s us, you prat!” Dev’s voice comes through, sounding impatient. “We’re here to study.” 

Snow mouths “ _are you fucking kidding me”_ and gives me a look that would melt paint off a wall. I’m still floundering when he bounds up, puts his whole body against me, and kisses me like it’s the last time he’s going to kiss anyone ever. It’s deep and slow, and for a moment I’m totally lost. Then he lets me go and smooths down my shirt. 

“Invite them in then, hmm?” he says, his gaze flicking down towards my trouser fly. I can’t tell for sure if he meant for the kiss to get me hard all over again, but I’m willing to bet he knew exactly what he was doing. I’m going to kill him. 

Snow retreats to his bed and opens his maths book, leaving me to complete the Olympic-level feat of walking the opposite direction from him, away from the warm expanse of his t-shirt and his skillful kisses and the clutch of his thighs, while willing my newly-raging erection to go down, _and_ tying my hair back up, _and_ trying to sort my face into a shape that doesn’t scream I’VE JUST HAD MY TONGUE IN SIMON SNOW’S MOUTH. 

I deserve a fucking trophy for this. 

I open the door and the lads come barreling in, books in hand and a suspicious lump showing under Niall’s hoodie, which means they’ve brought alcohol.

I take it back, Snow’s not the one I’m going to kill--it’s these two. 

“Smells funny in here,” Niall says, taking a bottle of cheap whiskey out from under his sweatshirt while Dev produces four bottles of WKD. Out of the corner of my eye I see Simon glance up at me and bite his lip. Fuck. Me.

“Piss off, it was fine before you got here,” I say. It’s taken a minute, but I’m now remembering that they did in fact tell me they were going to come over tonight. I mean of course. It’s just an ordinary night. How the hell was I supposed to know that Snow was going to set off a fucking time bomb by snogging me in the library? 

Just thinking about all of it makes my lower belly get hot. His teeth on my neck-- _fuck. Don’t think about that right now._

Thankfully, from the smell of it Dev and Niall have already been drinking, and right now their powers of observation are about as elevated as their taste in alcohol. The awkward post-dry-hump silence between me and Snow probably isn’t all that different to them than our hostile pre-dry-hump silence. The boys settle in on the floor and break out cups and packets of half-crushed crisps. 

Niall throws a look over at Snow. “You staying here, then?”

“Fuck off,” Snow says, without looking up. Then he does look up, directly at me. “Give me a drink.”

The next hour and a half feels like a century.

The boys stay until we’ve gone through about half of the whiskey (mixed with WKD--at least the awful taste more or less matches how I’m feeling about this whole situation). I don’t know how to get them out quickly without seeming suspicious, and every time I look at Snow, he’s watching me like I’m his prey and it’s making me sweat. After the first round of drinks and perfunctory studying, Dev and Niall get rid of the pretense of looking at their books and the night devolves into just drinking. And cards. 

As it turns out, nothing makes time move slower than playing a few hands of Hearts with your best mates while your crush undresses you with his eyes.

After round two, Dev and Niall are tipsy enough to invite Snow to join us on the floor to play, and he’s tipsy enough to agree. He plops down so close to me that for a horrifying second I think he’s going to try to lean on me or hold hands and my heart stops. Then he shoulders me, hard, and follows it up with an elbow.

“Move,” he says. Audacious prick.

“I was here first.” Accurate, if highly unoriginal. But I get a pass because I’m extremely unwell at the moment.

“ _I_ _was here first,”_ he mimics, poorly. I shove him and he tips over with a yelp. Dev cackles and Snow has the audacity to meet my eyes from where he’s landed; he tongues at the corner of his mouth, eyebrows raised.

Any minute now I am going to combust.

SIMON

* * *

I’m quite enjoying this. Dev and Niall obviously have no idea what’s going on, and I’m very pleased to discover that it is _much_ easier to get a rise out of a post-makeout/sexually frustrated Baz than it has any right to be. It actually (weirdly) kind of feels like nothing’s changed, except now everything we do feels sexual. 

Locking eyes with him in a challenge when I put down a card? Sexual.

Poking my foot into his ribs to try to get him to fall over? Sexual.

Grabbing his cup from his hand and licking all around the rim just as he’s trying to take a drink? Sexual. 

To be fair, I meant that one to be sexual. It was just the kind of annoyingly gross thing I might have done before, to antagonize him, but from the way he’s looking at me I can tell he wants to grab the cup right back and put his mouth where my tongue’s been. The thought makes my stomach all fluttery.

The buildup has all been very fun up to this point, (for me at least--Baz looks like he’s ready to set the other two on fire), but that cup thing really got me for some reason, and suddenly I want to be pinned under him again. Or do the pinning. Either way, I want to kiss his filthy mouth and Dev and Niall have to _go_.

After one more hand, I fake a huge yawn and get up. “I’m bored. I’m going to bed.” 

“Too bad for you,” Dev says, taking a swig. “Hope you have a sleep mask you can wear.”

Baz pushes the whiskey bottle towards both of them. “Sorry, gentlemen. One more shot then you’re out. I hate to agree with Snow but I’m knackered.” He sounds just like the old Baz--cool, cynical, perfectly in control. 

I’m going to ruin all of those things for him in about three minutes.

Any normal fool could see what’s going on here, probably. But the boys are drunk, and after taking their one last shot each, they gather up their books in messy piles and tumble out. Baz follows them up so he can lock the door and as soon as he turns around I’m on him. 

He falls back against the door with a thump and then his hands are around my waist pushing up under my shirt, and I’m hard almost instantly. 

This kiss...wow. Really, really means business. 

He snakes one arm all the way up until his hand is at the back of my neck again and wraps the other around my waist. I don’t know how he thinks he’s going to be able to pull me any closer than I already am, but I’m not upset that he’s trying.

I’m quicker this time to start rubbing against him; I think we’ve long passed the point of trying to pretend that we don’t turn each other on, or don’t want to keep doing it. He pulls his mouth off of me and drops his head to my shoulder like he can’t bear to be feeling the two things at once. His exhale is shaky against me.

It feels a little like he’s going to shatter, in a good way. 

  
  


BAZ

* * *

Snow might have broken a world record for how fast he got hard and if there’s one thing that will shake a man’s self-doubt to its core, that is definitely it. I have to break away and put my head on his shoulder as he fits himself against me and starts to move. I can’t trust myself to stay quiet, and I don’t want to make any noises directly into his mouth. That seems...impolite.

But then he grabs the hair at the nape of my neck and hauls my face up, none too gently--which turns out I must be into, because it feels like my body’s been plugged into a wall socket. He smashes his mouth back on mine just in time to swallow what has to be the most unbecoming sound I’ve ever made. 

Snow laughs breathlessly. “Alright then?” He pulls back slightly.

“Fine, yeah--fine,” I say. “Just--didn’t expect to like that so much.”

“Mmm...like... _this_ so much?” He re-tightens his grip on my hair and pulls my head back, exposing my throat like he’s going in for the kill. With our height difference his mouth is just about the right height for it and he still has me pinned against the door. 

I feel utterly defenseless and it’s so fucking hot. 

_Well this certainly explains quite a few things about me_ , I think, and then his tongue dips into the dent between my collarbones and I’m not thinking about anything but that. He takes his time with his tongue, adding teeth, adding wide kisses, adding wide kisses with tongue, leaning up to bite and lick my earlobe, all the while maintaining his excruciating rhythm until I’m a gasping mess. 

I’m trying to parse how he can be taking this much time on such a relatively small area of my body while still making everything feel so urgent. And it _is_ urgent. We’re hurtling towards something--some might say the _only_ thing--in a way we weren’t before, and I know I want it as much as he does but I’m terrified. 

Maybe _terrified_ is too strong a word. Intimidated?

It’s not the actual physicality of it that’s so daunting. I’m not worried that it will hurt, or that I’m not ready. And I’m familiar with the mechanics, of course--I’ve been wanking to the mechanics since I was thirteen. 

Honestly--and I hate that this is the reason--I just don’t want to be inept. 

I’ve spent the last five years maintaining a hard-won appearance of superiority, and I loathe the idea of relinquishing it or showing any cracks. (And yes I know how stupid that sounds, thank you.)

The more immediate problem is that he’s also very effectively turned me to jelly and I don’t know how much longer I can actually stand up.

Suddenly Snow is fumbling at my belt and I know I won’t be able to do that like this. I grab his wrists. He stills immediately and pulls back to look up at me. “No good?”

I shake my head. “No. Yes. I mean, not--.” I’m having trouble putting a coherent thought together.

“Not what?’” He pulls back and makes a face as he adjusts himself in his pants. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I know.” I look down at my own groin and then back at him. “This isn’t--I don’t think I can do this standing up anymore. Right now.”

He laughs. “Are you saying I’m literally making your knees weak?”

I shove him. “Get on the bed, Snow.”

He looks back and forth between our beds like there’s any difference between them. Although, I suppose there might be. There’s probably some power dynamic to this that we don’t know about; his choice might mean something that we don’t find out about until much later when it plays itself out in nefarious ways.

Or, we just have to make the choice between two identically-sized beds, both of which are definitely too small to have both of us comfortably in them at once. Either way, I’m tired of waiting and my bed has nicer sheets, so I push him in that direction with my hands on his shoulders. He stops at the foot, then topples face down in a full body sprawl and immediately groans.

“Mmmmf, shouldn’t have done that,” he says into the duvet. He turns over and protectively cups his still very hard cock. “Bit sensitive right now.”

I know I’m blushing. I’m just not used to talking openly about mutual erections with the boy I’m mad about (or anyone, for that matter).I stretch out next to him and prop myself up on my arm. He’s grinning up at me and still holding himself gently over his trousers with one hand. I can’t help myself from looking down and when I do, he starts moving his hand just a bit. I hear his breath catch as he swallows, and when I look back up his eyes are dark and serious and he’s biting his lip. 

“Do you want to--?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Fuck yeah.” And he rolls himself on top of me and attacks my lips again. 

SIMON

* * *

I really, really want to touch his bare skin. Chest first, then other things, but definitely chest first. Or maybe his hip bones. Either way. I start in on the top button of his shirt but I’m not great at multitasking so it’s a rough go. 

Finally he stops kissing me and slaps my hands away. “Christ you’re hopeless.”

“You’re distracting me,” I say defensively, which is true. His hands were on my arse a moment ago.

He snorts and pushes up on his elbows so we can wrestle him out of his shirt, and bloody hell. I fucking _knew_ he would look good but even so, I can’t stop staring. It feels a little strange to be able to look at him so openly, and he must feel it too because he flops back and puts his arm over his face. “It’s rude to stare.”

I lean down to kiss the fine hairs at the middle of his chest. “No it isn’t. Do you even _look_ at yourself ever? You’re like a fucking statue.” His nipples are so hard, and so perfectly pink.

“ _Please_ shut up,” he says into his elbow. 

“Shhhhh, statues can’t talk,” I say, before taking one of his nipples into my mouth. 

Baz hisses and grabs my neck and I pull back. “Shit, I’m sorry. Too much?”

“No.” He half laughs and shakes his head with his eyes closed. As I lower back down he clears his throat and says hoarsely, “You can do more.”

  
  


BAZ

* * *

Should I just tell him outright I want to feel his teeth? I’m past needing tenderness and soft touches and carefulness now; I want to be consumed. I’ve been ruined ever since he grabbed my hair against the door, and now that I don’t have to worry about keeping myself upright...well. Bring it on.

Then his fingers dig into my sides and he bites hard at my chest like he could hear every perverted thought that’s been galloping through my head. His hands haven’t stopped moving over my body since my shirt came off, and he’s working his way down my torso with his mouth (mostly his teeth). Apparently his approach to sex is just as reckless and eager as it is with anything else, and I’m grateful for it. This is the whole thing with Simon--if you’re not careful, you’ll be swept away in his current whether you want to be or not, but that’s exactly what I need right now. 

His mouth is relentless. I know I don’t have anything to compare it to but it feels like this is something he should be proud of. How does he know what to do and how to do it? Is this technique something that feels good for everyone, or is it only driving me mad because it’s him? I don’t have any answers but he’s making it very difficult to think about anything other than what he’s doing, anyway. He pauses over my hip bones and slides his thumbs over them, hooking into my trouser waistband. Then his hands continue, sliding around until he’s cupping my arse. He lifts my hips and bends his head to kiss my navel like he’s drinking an offering and I feel like I’m overflowing.

When I reach down to grab the hair at the top of his head, he looks up at me, all eyes. 

“Can I?” His face is so desperately hopeful it makes my chest hurt. I don’t know exactly what he’s asking but I nod. I don’t need to know. I want it all.

He unbuckles my belt and pops the button on my trouser fly and unzips me in what feels like record time. I’m trying not to dwell on what will happen once my everything is off--it hasn’t felt _great_ to have my cock pushing at my trousers, but the alternative seems like more than I can handle.

I think I need to get over that. I’m going to have to, because Snow is pulling my trousers down and off and I realize too late that he’s taken my pants with them. Two birds, one stone and all that, I guess. And then I’m just... _all out there_. Laid bare by Simon Snow-- _for_ Simon Snow--who’s looking at me like I’m the fucking sun and this is his first time seeing daylight.

“Fuck, Baz,” he says softly. “Look at you.”

SIMON

* * *

I’ve embarrassed him again but I don’t care. I wish I could make him see how bloody gorgeous he is right now. Well, all the time really. But especially right now. I crawl back up the length of his body and kiss his chest and his neck and his ears and finally his lips again, pressing myself against his nakedness although I can’t feel much over my clothes. It doesn’t matter--I love this.

He’s warmed in my hands, like I’ve literally rubbed off on him. His whole body is flawless and pale--exactly like what you’d expect a Grimm-Pitch to look like, honestly--and his thighs just about knock me out. I’ve spent five years waiting to get access to those fucking thighs and I want to wrap them around me and never come out. 

Five-years-ago Simon would also be absolutely furious at how beautiful Baz’s dick is. I almost can’t stand it now.

“It’s offensive how perfect your dick is,” I whisper in his ear. “No wonder I hate you.”

He cringes and huffs out a laugh and pulls me back over to kiss him, I think mostly so he doesn’t have to respond. I trail my hand down below his ribs, low enough that he’ll be sure to know what I mean, and then I ask again: “Can I?”

He nods. I find him and close my hand gently around, and his whole body goes rigid as he makes a noise against my neck. 

“Alright?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he whispers. His breath is coming faster and he’s so, so hard. His eyes are shut tight as he rocks into my hand and mumbles curse words into my ear. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how easy it is to make him come unglued. If only I’d known this years ago.

  
  


BAZ

* * *

This is somehow all too much and not enough at the same time. I never want him to stop, but eventually his hand slows as he pushes up on his other arm to look down at me, and I already know what he’s going to ask. 

“Yes,” I say, before he can say anything.

He laughs. “How do you know what I’m going to ask?”

“Because I want it, too.”

“You just don’t want to hear me say it out loud,” he says, accusatory but grinning. He’s got me. 

I close my eyes and sigh. He’s exhausting. “Fine. Say it.”

“Baz,” he dips his head and puts his mouth close to my ear. “Can I please suck your dick.” It’s less a question than a statement, but--

“Still yes,” I say, and grab him for another kiss.

He doesn’t bother to ask if this is my first time, whether because he doesn’t care or because it hasn’t occurred to him that it might be, I’m not sure. Either way. (It’s not something I’d lie about, but I’m also glad I don’t have to mention it right now.)

He takes his time getting down there, leaving bites that feel like they might leave marks this time (a man can dream). Then his mouth settles over me and I’m pretty sure he’s going to be able to tell that I’m new at this just from my reaction. He’s barely gotten over the tip and I’m already a mess. Everything is just so _hot and wet_ , absolutely nothing like a hand. 

If I wasn’t already completely obsessed with Simon Snow’s mouth, this would have been the moment that put me over the edge. It _is_ putting me over the edge. Part of me wants to lie back and close my eyes and just get lost in it--there’s so much _new_ going on right now and I’m floundering to keep up--but something tells me I’d be a fool if I didn’t watch. So I bolster the pillow a bit behind my head so it can do the work for me, and I look down. 

My thoughts aren’t exactly coherent at the moment, but nothing in the world could have prepared me for the sight of Snow doing...any of that. One leg is halfway off the bed and his broad shoulders strain at his t-shirt as one hand works with his mouth and the other trails along my thighs and belly. He must feel me shift because he looks up at me, his mouth in a perfect “O,” eyes shining through his hair and eyelashes, and does _something_ with his throat and oh my god.

Oh my god.

I’m going to come in Simon Snow’s mouth.

  
  


SIMON

* * *

Baz has gone tense under me as he falls back on the pillow and his hand brushes my hair like he’s trying to get my attention. “Simon, I’m--” He sounds worried.

_I know, love. I know you are. And I wouldn’t miss it for anything._

He grabs my shoulder with one hand and twists the sheets in the other. I think he whispers “please” but I’m distracted by thinking about how he even _tastes_ like you’d expect a Grimm-Pitch would taste. Rich. Refined. I almost laugh. I feel like I can’t get enough.

He looks pained and vulnerable and it’s really doing something to me, so I carefully lick him clean just so I can watch his face a little longer. When he starts to go soft I crawl back up to nose at his ear and kiss his neck, testing the waters. I don’t know if he wants to be kissed right after, but he turns his face to me, whispers “come here,” and goes in deep. Alright then.

I could do this all night. Spending hours snogging someone who’s good at it is a fucking brilliant way of passing the time. I feel like people underestimate how nice just kissing is. Baz is so soft right now; the way he’s curled himself towards me with his hand on my face. It’s nice.

As I relax into it, other parts relax with me and I realize how badly I need to piss. I push his hair back and detach.

“I’ll be right back,” I say softly.

“I’ll be here,” he mumbles, smiling slightly. He looks absolutely knackered.

It takes me a little while to actually piss; I’ve relaxed a bit but not enough to make it easy. When I finally come out, Baz is fast asleep, curled the other way now with his hair falling over his face. And maybe this is what makes me such a terrible boyfriend to people, but I don’t mind at all that he’s fallen asleep before we got to me.

_How can you just go along ‘not minding’ things all the bloody time?_ Agatha asked me once when we were fighting. _You need to ask for something for yourself for once, Simon! Have an opinion! No one can be_ that _bloody mellow!_

The truth is, when it comes to that sort of thing, I feel a bit like a nominee at an awards ceremony--I’m just happy to be considered. Being with Baz today has been brilliant; I’m not going to make a whole scene over whether I got a blowjob or not. Obviously I’d like it to happen _eventually_ , but I assume we’ll have more time for that later. We do share a room, after all.

Do we share a bed, though? I think I’d like to. Normally I love my bed, but right now it looks completely unwelcoming. I change into trackie bottoms and grab the duvet from my bed so I don’t have to try to move Baz off of his. I don’t actually use the duvet that often but I know Baz runs cold. I climb in over the bottom so I don’t wake him up, and then settle in behind him with the duvet over us both. I’m immediately too hot, but he feels like he could use the heat.

I throw my arm over his waist and he moves back into me. I’ve always loved being the big spoon; and it means I get to kiss the back of his neck, which is someplace I haven’t paid much attention to yet. When I do, he lets out this delicious sigh, so I do it again. 

“Goodnight,” I whisper, even though I know he won’t hear.

He shifts. “Simon,” he mumbles, and I smile.

That’s twice he’s said my name today.


	13. Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one! I was driving cross country and getting re-settled at home but I'm back and will hopefully be back to doing weekly updates.
> 
> Thanks as always for the comments and to my sister for the beta.
> 
> I hope this scratches everyone's smut itch! It was fun to write.

BAZ

* * *

I wake up to Snow’s alarm, as always, but this time he doesn’t shut it off as fast as he usually does. I’m still half-asleep and preparing to be furious when I realize two things: 1) someone is curled around me with his arm across my waist and 2) I’m actually, genuinely warm for once. 

Snow.

I only get a second to enjoy him there (his face is against my shoulder) before he mumbles “Shit”, climbs out of bed in a big tangle to slap the alarm clock into silence, and climbs right back in with me. Not before I get to peek at him in the light, though; honestly, his shoulders should be ashamed, being that broad and that golden this early in the morning. I close my eyes again before I can look too closely at his moles. There are limits to what a man can handle at 6:30am. 

He settles in behind me again and part of me wishes I had pretended to stay asleep so we could just go back to him being wrapped around me, but it’s too late for that so I turn onto my back. I’m suddenly aware of how naked I am. And-- _oh Christ._ _Please don’t let him lift the duvet._

Then his arm slides across my waist and he pokes me in the armpit with all four of his fingers. “Good morning, Basilton.” 

“Good morning,” I say, still looking straight ahead. I don’t think we’ve reached the part where we’re allowed to breathe morning breath into each other’s faces yet. Then I remember that I was, in fact, _in_ his mouth last night, for a laughably short amount of time before...well. And then I remember that I fell asleep before he was even out of his clothes. 

I thought I had plumbed the depths of my embarrassment long ago, but it seems I’ve discovered a new limit. I immediately feel selfish and amateur, but as always, none of this seems to have registered with Snow.

“You’re naked,” he says, and I can hear his grin so I finally turn my head.

I want to say something clever but what comes out is, “ _You’re_ not.” It still sounds like a retort somehow, although it’s not at all what I wanted to say, but then--

He laughs and retracts his arm from my waist and--God almighty--shimmies out of his trackie bottoms and kicks them down to the edge of the bed.

“Happy?” he asks. He has no idea. He turns back to me and exhales loudly towards my ear. “How’s my breath?”

I try to glower but it doesn’t feel very convincing. “Are you always this insufferable in the morning?”

He kisses my cheek. “Dunno. Probably. Are you going to shower?”

It feels unbearably early but obviously I’m not going to be able to go back to sleep to wait for my own alarm.

“I suppose,” I sigh, although what I _really_ want is to keep lying here with Snow’s bulky warmth near me until I get up the courage to ignore the morning breath and snog him again. 

I dreamt about Snow’s kisses last night, I woke up thinking about them, and there’s very little chance I’m going to be able to think about anything else at all today. It would be nice to stay in bed and not have to try to carry on with my day as if everything is normal. 

Moreover, I don’t know how one is supposed to gracefully exit the bed one is sharing with one’s enemy-turned-snogging-partner-who-one-is-also-hopelessly-in-love-with. My morning wood has mercifully downgraded to a semi, but still.

Snow solves the problem for me by sitting up and floundering around for his bottoms. He scoots into them and slides off the bed simultaneously and then looks at me as he settles them on his hips. His hair is everywhere and he has that predatory look again, all glinty eyes and a smirk that means trouble. Then he pounces, landing on all fours over me, and starts ravaging at my neck like an enthusiastic puppy. I’m so surprised that I don’t know whether to laugh or yell.

He pulls back and looks at me. “Can I shower with you?” 

_Lord help me, the nerve of this boy._

Obviously the answer is yes, but for some reason it still seems important that I don’t seem easy. “If you insist,” I say instead. 

“I insist,” he says, and laughs at me. 

  
  


SIMON

* * *

All I want is to see Baz naked again. I still can’t quite believe I got to spend all night with my arm over him (and my nose in his hair). I’d like to convince him to cut morning classes with me so we can snog more, but I don’t think it’s fair to ask. He’s still trying for valedictorian. 

I leave him under the covers to go brush my teeth and when he joins me a few minutes later, he’s put his pants on. It suppose it should be a disappointment but he looks...fuck, he’s just so bloody fit I don’t even know how he’s real. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said he looks like a statue; it should be a literal crime for someone to be so nicely put together. His pants are perfectly snug around his thighs and the material hugs his arse in the best way. He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow as he squeezes out toothpaste. 

I spit and rinse. “I’m allowed to stare at you now,” I say. 

He rolls his eyes but he’s too posh to talk around his toothbrush, so I win that one, at least for the next few minutes. I lean back against the countertop and keep right on staring because I like watching him try not to look flustered, but also because I can’t stop. Finally he rinses and pats his mouth dry and I slide across the sink into his space.

“How’s my breath _now_?” I ask, and exhale next to his face. 

He makes a face. “How do you think?”

“It’s important,” I say. “Tell me.”

“Why is it important?” He sounds resigned, like he knows I’ll wear him down eventually. 

“Because,” I say. “I’m about to kiss this bloke and I want it to be nice.”

Baz hesitates like he’s making a decision and then steps deliberately in front of me with one eyebrow raised. “Is that so?” He gets closer, pushing me back against the sink until it starts to dig into my thighs. 

Pushy Baz quickly goes to the top of my list of things I’d like to have much more of.

I barely have time to say yes before he leans in, and I meet him halfway in a messy, minty kiss that immediately has me all hot and bothered. His hands are cradling my head, which leaves his body wide open-- _good. All mine_. I put my hands flat on his back and work my way down and around until I can dig my thumbs into his hip bones. 

It took all of six seconds for us both to be half hard again and then he starts grinding against me and we’re not so “half” anymore. Fuck, it feels so much better this way than with trousers on. Baz’s cock is thick and insistent through our thin layers and I think about how nice it is that I don’t have to imagine what he looks like anymore. (Or tastes like, for that matter.) I know just how fucking graceful his dick is and right now he’s got every inch of it pressed against my hip. 

The bloody countertop is ruining the moment by cutting off all the circulation in my legs. I hold out for as long as I can and then push him back until I can stand up straight, still attached to his face.

“My legs,” I say into his mouth, by way of explanation.

“Sorry,” he says, stepping away from me.

“No.” I pull him back by the waistband and it takes a significant amount of effort not to keep going and dip my fingers into his dark pubic curls. “I like Pushy Baz,” I say. “He’s hot.”

He responds by biting and sucking hard at my neck until I yelp embarrassingly. He bites me again and then soothes both places with his tongue. _Fucking Christ._

I’m just tipping my head up to give him unlimited access when his alarm goes off in the other room. 

Baz jumps and I laugh. _Someday_ we’re going to get to make out without something or another interrupting us, but I guess it’s not today. He huffs as he pushes off me and stalks out, and I turn around to inspect the damage to my neck.

BAZ

* * *

Neck biting is, apparently, a Thing for both of us. I’m cataloguing all of these discoveries and filing them away, under the heading How to Drive Simon Snow Absolutely Mad. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the idea that I turn him on as much as he does me, but so far that does seem to be the case. When I get back he’s leaning towards the mirror, tilting his head and looking at his neck.

“You left a mark,” he says. He sounds both accusatory and delighted. “Look--perfect little tooth shapes.” 

I stand behind him to look, and he’s right. Just above the curve of his shoulder are two little red half-moons surrounded by a nebulous purplish mark. I move my gaze from his actual neck to his neck in the mirror. The mark is both damning and wildly erotic and my body has an immediate, visceral response to seeing the evidence of myself on him. I shouldn’t like it so much, this small damage I’ve done.

“Sorry,” I say. I sound more grouchy than apologetic, which isn’t what I want. I try again. “I’m sorry.” Better.

His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You don’t have to keep apologizing for everything,” he says seriously. He pauses and his cheeks get pink. “I--it’s--I like it. All of it.” _Well I’ll be damned._

Snow shifts ever so slightly backwards and tips his head to the left. I may be relatively new at this but I can take a hint; I step forward and lower my head to his neck to take another bite, more carefully this time. The two moles there need tasting, too; I lick them and Snow’s head falls back against my shoulder and he makes a little noise of concession. His hair is soft against my ear as he reaches back with both hands to clutch at my thighs. 

Over his shoulder, I can see his erection straining at the thin front of his bottoms and the outline leaves almost nothing to the imagination. I suppose mine wouldn’t either, if I could see it. I’m at that crossroads again, trying to decide if pressing myself into his back would be considered Too Much and feeling slightly ridiculous for even wondering. Technically we’ve covered this ground already, but only once, and it’s different from the back. There’s also a mirror now. 

Double your pleasure, double your anxiety. 

In the end, my body wins and I push him forward, planting my hands on the counter at either side of his hips and finding the friction I need against the soft, dented curve of his arse.

Snow growls and pushes back against me hard, twisting his head to kiss me on the mouth. He moves his hands to my hair and pulls me down urgently until it’s too much of a strain and he lets his head fall forward so I can lick the back of his neck again. 

I’m working my way down his neck, mid-bite, when something in the air changes. I’m not sure what it’s about until Snow takes my right hand off the countertop and guides it, palm down, across his stomach. He lifts his head and meets my eyes in the mirror, brow furrowing slightly, then his eyes flick down to his groin as he moves my hand lower. 

He licks his lips, eyes on mine again, and I marvel at his confidence until I hear his breath catch and I understand why he’s moving so slowly. _He wants to make sure this is ok_. 

He doesn’t need to worry. It very, very much is.

SIMON

* * *

Everything about this is doing it for me right now, starting with the hickey and ending with Baz shrugging my hand off of his and going back in by himself. He slides his fingers around my ribs before slipping his hands into my waistband, and then he hesitates.

“All the way off?” he says into my ear. 

“Yeah.” I’m a little breathless thinking about it. Well, to be fair I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday, but now it’s _here_. So.

He stretches my waistband, delicately lifting it over my erection and settling it underneath, then stops like he’s not sure where to go from there. I help him out by pushing the trousers down until they can fall to my ankles, and I kick them aside.

And there I am, naked in front of him in the mirror. 

  
  


BAZ

* * *

I tried to prepare for this--to no avail, as it turns out. For one thing, I assumed the first handjob I ever gave would be lying down and facing the other person. No one thought to mention to me that there could be a fucking _mirror_ involved. 

Despite all that, there’s something incredibly erotic about having my chest pressed to Simon’s back and being able to see us like this at the same time. It’s like being a voyeur into my own sex life, which is something I would never in a million years have guessed I might enjoy. And yet. 

Snow’s shoulders eclipse mine and his skin looks practically bronze next to my paleness. I look everywhere but where I actually want to look, after he finishes taking off his trackies, and he gets my attention by taking my hand again and spreading it low on his stomach. When I press my thumb in, I can feel his pulse racing in his solar plexus. I stall for time by kissing his neck again.

Everything feels different from last night. Last night was all sweaty sighs and ripped bodices and rushing desperately towards the finish line. This is slow and intentional, a more excruciating kind of sexy. The kind that might kill you if you think about it too hard.

It’s clear Snow wants me to take the lead on this, and I know it’s time. I think briefly what a small mercy it is that things turned out this way; mirror notwithstanding, the angle at least is one I’m familiar with. I finally look down as I take him in hand and _oh Christ_. Snow’s skin feels so delicate, although the actual heft of him is anything but. His cock is solid and warm, just like everything else about him.

He gives a little moan and rests his head back on my shoulder, smiling.

“You’re a tease,” he whispers near my ear, and I realize I’m still just holding him, doing nothing. An accidental tease this time, but the thought that he might like me to be purposeful about it makes my brain fuzzy. 

Simon sucks in his breath and grips my thigh as I start stroking and I’m overwhelmed. I have no idea if he’ll tell me what he likes. All I have to go on is what I like for myself, so that’s what I start with. Firm, whole-fisted strokes, not too fast yet; when I add a twist over the head he whimpers and clutches at me again. The little beads at the tip gather almost as fast as I can rub them in, just another indication of Simon’s unquenchable enthusiasm for all of this. 

He takes my other hand off the counter and flattens it against his chest. “Baz,” he says. “Look at me.”

So I do.

  
  


SIMON

* * *

I don’t know much (actually, make that “know anything”) about being wanked in a mirror, but honestly this could be my new favorite thing. Watching someone while they watch you watch them get you off is a real mindfuck that leaves me dizzy. As soon as Baz meets my eyes in the mirror, it feels like I’m watching a dirty film. 

A dirty film that I would pay good money for, if I’m being honest; we look bloody beautiful together. 

He seems to know exactly what he’s doing and I can’t help but think about how this is probably how he touches himself, too. Whatever he’s doing with his wrist is completely setting me off. Everything’s going a bit buzzy as it does when I’m getting close, and all I can hear is Baz’s hand on my cock and his breath in my ear. 

“Are you--” his voice catches and he starts over. “Is this good?” 

I’m not prepared for that. For him to be so polite about it. I hear myself groan and all I can do is nod. 

  
  
  


BAZ 

* * *

Snow’s face looks pained and he’s digging his nails into my other hand and swearing.

“Fuck, Baz--bloody--Jesus _fuck_ ,” he chokes out, and the next second I feel his stomach tense under my palm and then he’s coming in thick, exuberant spurts over my hand, the sink, even once on the mirror, right on Mirror Simon’s stomach (the lucky git).

I can’t seem to look away, or take my hand off. I keep stroking until he shudders and laughs breathlessly, grabbing my hand off of himself and lacing his fingers through the backs of mine in a sticky sandwich. We’re both sweaty and panting, and when he meets my eyes again in the mirror his cheeks are redder than I’ve ever seen them and all his freckles are standing out. 

“Fucking hell,” he gasps, still half laughing. Then he turns around, a little awkwardly, until he’s facing me. I’m not sure what to do with my messy hand but Simon has never had a single qualm in his whole life and starts tracing the lines of my chest with his fingers. 

“Is that how you get yourself off every time?” he asks. His grin is adorably lopsided. “I _knew_ you Grimm-Pitches were good at bloody everything. You’re such a tosser.”

I can see my face in the mirror and it’s a ridiculous mix of put out and pleased that I wouldn’t have thought possible if I wasn’t literally witnessing it.

“Yes, well,” I clear my throat. “You did just fine yourself. Last night.” Bollocks. I’m terrible at this.

“‘Just fine?’” Snow repeats, still grinning. “Thanks a lot.”

“I--” I’m not entirely sure what to say here.

Then he gives me a look up and down that makes my toes curl. “Should I try again, then?”

_Bloody hell._

SIMON

* * *

I don’t wait for an answer. It was more or less a rhetorical question anyway. To be perfectly frank, I haven’t stopped thinking about Baz in my mouth since last night, and from the looks of it, neither has he. I kiss and push at him until he’s backed up against the wall across from the sink, palming him through his pants. 

He makes a strangled noise as he bumps against the wall. His hands are everywhere like he can’t figure out what to grab first, but I have a one-track mind at the moment and all I can focus on is getting his pants off. They catch a bit on his erection on the way down.

“Sorry,” I manage, still out of breath, and kiss him again before he can snark at me.

I’m actually not incredibly experienced with blowjobs, I just _like_ them. And I didn’t get to be down there for nearly as long as I wanted to last night. First times are always a bit weird I suppose.

I kiss my way down his chest until I’m on my knees. The floor isn’t terribly comfortable and I’m trying to decide how much I actually care when Baz gropes at the hook on the door and hands a towel down. 

I make a mental note to make fun of him later for being such a perfect gentleman.

BAZ

* * *

I’m driven to distraction at the sight of Simon Snow on his knees, on _my_ towel no less. His eyes are huge as he looks up at me, just for a second, and then his flush spreads all the way down his shoulders as he gives me a messy lick from root to tip. He’s already half-hard again and I vaguely wonder if we’re about to be stuck in some kind of mad, neverending sex spiral.

One can only hope. 

I’d have to write a formal apology to my father. _Dear father, I regret to inform you that I will not be graduating with honors. There’s just no time to study as I’ve been too busy getting mercilessly fellated by my absolute nightmare of a roommate…_

For a terrible second I think I might actually start laughing, but Snow very effectively brings me back to earth by removing his helping hand and pushing his face all the way down until his nose is buried in my pubic hair. _Jesus fucking Christ_. 

I look up to catch the motion of him retreating in the mirror and my own face above him is almost unrecognizable. I look wanton and unraveled and I know I should hate it--a Grimm-Pitch should never, ever lose his composure this way. It would be undignified to whimper incoherently and thrust into the mouth of the beautiful, curly-haired boy on his knees in front of me. It would also be undignified to clutch at those same curls-- _it’s just so gauche to seem desperate, isn’t it, Basilton?_

But that boy in the mirror isn’t quite me, and I watch helplessly as his fingers grasp eagerly at the back of Simon’s tawny head, drawing him in, desperation be damned. 

  
  


SIMON

* * *

The only downside to this is that I can’t actually _talk_ but at some point I’m going to have to tell Baz that having my hair grabbed is fucking brilliant. I hope that means he likes what I’m doing. Last night seemed to go alright anyway.

“Sim--” His voice is raspy and he doesn’t finish the word. Then he starts to shake a bit and he pulls his hips back. I think he’s trying to be polite but I lean in to stay with him, feeling a little foolish as I grab at his legs. I’m not about to miss out and I don’t; he tastes just as good as he did last night. He grips my hair and lets me take everything I want.

And I wasn’t wrong--he definitely says “please” when he comes. I want to know what he’s asking for but I have a feeling he might not even know.

BAZ

* * *

I’m the physical embodiment of the word “spent”. I can’t stand up anymore, so I slide down the wall until I’m sitting against it with my knees up, blissed-out and feeling ridiculous.

Snow scoots forward on his knees and sits back on his haunches, fitted nicely between my thighs. I glance down and he’s almost fully erect again.

“Christ, Snow, how are you ready to go _again_?” I ask wearily. “Does this always happen to you?” I feel like a human-shaped puddle.

His face goes beet red and he looks like he’s about to say something. Then he leans forward to kiss me instead.

“Still want to shower?” he asks. Something about his voice makes me think that that wasn’t what he was actually about to say.

Also, I don’t. (Want to shower, that is.) I want to spend the day with the evidence of him, however invisible, still on me. I’m also afraid that if we get in the shower I won’t be able to keep my hands off of him, and I’ve been careless and needy enough for one day already. File both of these under Things I Can Never Say Out Loud.

I shake my head. “I think we’re out of time.” 

He huffs and rolls his eyes. “Well _some_ of us don’t spend forty-five minutes conditioning our hair, or whatever it is you do.”

“I’m not going to be guilted by someone who uses three-in-one bodywash,” I retort. It’s not quite true--Bunce made him get an actual face regimen a while back. But the gist is still accurate.

“That’s--I don’t--I mean, I haven’t--” he starts blustering and I feel bad so I put my hand over his mouth and he quiets immediately. (This is useful information.) 

“Shut up,” I tell him. He licks my palm and I yelp and yank my hand away. “Ugh. You’re insufferable.” He’s not, and I want him to lick me everywhere. Instead I grab his insufferable face and kiss him hard.

It lasts a while and when he finally pulls back we’re both out of breath again. Now we really _are_ running out of time and I’m getting worried there won’t be time for breakfast before class. We get up and Snow hangs my towel up and then second guesses it and takes it off the hook. He looks uncertainly at me and I jerk my chin towards the hamper.

It takes everything in me not to stare at him while he gets dressed. My mouth is sore from kissing (no one ever told me _that_ was a thing, either) and I can’t think clearly. Classes are going to be hell today. Finally my brain meanders around to the topic of breakfast, and I stop dead. I haven’t acknowledged the existence of the outside world since last night, and Snow and I haven’t figured out what any of this is yet. We don’t know what we are outside of this room yet. (We don’t know what we are _inside_ of this room, either, but at least we seem to be on the same page when it comes to snogging and...the other things.)

I turn to him before I can think better of it. “Should we keep this to ourselves, then?”

Snow looks surprised and gives me a crooked not-quite-smile. “Yeah,” he sighs. “‘S’pose it’s for the best.” 

  
  


SIMON

* * *

I don’t really want to keep this to ourselves, but on the other hand it does feel a bit daft for us to do a complete 180 after only one night of snogging. Would we suddenly just start holding hands and being all soft with each other in public? Are we even the sorts of boyfriends who would do that, even if we hadn’t spent the last five years at each other’s throats?

I’m no good at trying to figure these things out and either way, it doesn’t matter right now. 

“You can go first,” Baz says. “You’re always at breakfast before I am, anyway. Wouldn’t want Bunce to spot anything amiss.”

“She’s probably going to know anyway,” I say. “I’m never this late and--” I stop before I can say “she already knows how mad I am for you.” 

“And what?” Baz saunters over and fixes my tie. He leaves his hands there on my chest and cocks an eyebrow at me. 

“Nothing,” I say. “I’ll tell her I overslept.”

He pulls me in by my jumper and kisses me. “I’ll see you in class, then.” And with that, he pushes me out the door. 

  
  
  


PENELOPE

* * *

I’ve been waiting for Simon for twenty minutes by the time he shows up. He looks a little disheveled and he’s rushing.

“Sorry, Pen--I overslept,” he says breathlessly, before I can even ask. 

“What happened to your alarm?” I ask.

“Er...just the batteries,” he says unconvincingly. He’s in front of me at this point so I can’t see his face, but he _sounds_ guilty. I wait until we’re sitting down to test into that hypothesis properly. Simon’s tucking into his scones and avoiding my eyes, so I have a strong suspicion I’m correct, but I want to hear it from him.

“Doesn’t your alarm plug in?” I ask.

“Hmmm?” He pauses mid-bite. “My--oh, right. I, erm...forgot to plug it in.”

Well, he tried at least. “Simon, how stupid do you think I am?” I ask incredulously. He finally looks up, but it’s only to look over my shoulder towards the door. I look behind me and sure enough, Baz is stalking in, looking just as surly as always. Except today he glances over at Simon, just slightly. His eyes flick over him and Baz looks dead guilty. Not because he actually _looks_ guilty, but because he’s doing such a good job of _not_ looking guilty. His face is too impassive. No sneer, nothing.

Plus I can see the flush creeping up the side of Simon’s neck. _I knew it._

Simon turns back around and his Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps a little bit. 

“Oh for heck’s sake, Simon!” I say, exasperated. “I know you were late because of Baz!” I keep my voice low but he still looks at me in a panic.

“Shhhh, for Christ’s sake!” he says, eyes wide. Then he starts to crack and I can tell he’s fighting back a grin. “Ok, yes--we were...snogging.” 

The way he says the last bit makes me think they weren’t just snogging.

I raise my eyebrows pointedly. “And?”

“And...other stuff,” says Simon. He looks positively radiant.

“I meant ‘and’ as in, was it any good?” I say drily. “But thank you for offering that other piece of completely too-much information.”

Simon huffs. “Fine. And it was...yeah. It was good.” 

The way he says the last bit makes me think it wasn’t just good. 

“So now what?” I ask. I know they haven’t talked about anything yet, the numpties. But if I don’t keep asking Simon if they have, he’ll never get around to it and they’ll end up being boyfriends, engaged, and married without ever having defined the relationship.

Simon shrugs in frustration. “Dunno. There aren’t really any rulebooks for what to do when your sworn enemy suddenly wants to give you a--”

I look at him pointedly.

“--erm, kiss,” Simon finishes quickly. “Or when your sworn enemy wants to do anything with you other than fight. Well, I guess technically we still fight…” He trails off.

“I know,” I say. “It’s completely unprecedented. Also I still think he’s a pretentious arse and you’re too good for him. But I’ll support you until you figure out if it’s a terrible idea or not.”

Simon smiles ruefully around his last scone. “It probably is. But thank you, Pen.”


	14. I Want To Hold Your Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this took sooo much longer than I intended. I guess my charmed vacation existence where I wrote five chapters at a time isn't a thing anymore but that's fiiiiine I guess. Thanks for being patient, everyone!
> 
> And as always, thank you for all the sweet comments <3

SIMON

* * *

Baz and I sleep like shit the whole week. Or I guess I should say, we sleep great when we actually sleep, but we stay up so late messing around that it doesn’t do much good.

By Friday, we’ve snogged on pretty much every snoggable surface in our room. On Tuesday, we break my lamp when Baz hoists me onto my desk and my arm goes sideways. Wednesday I get rug burns on my knees from...well, that’s fairly obvious I think. And Thursday Baz gets a goose egg from bumping his head on the wall when I push him onto my bed. We’re even worse off physically than we were when we used to fight. It’s ridiculous.

Honestly, I’ve never been happier.

At least by Friday, we finally manage to not be late for breakfast, but it’s only because Baz gets fed up and sets his alarm for thirty minutes earlier than usual. When it goes off, he hits snooze and pushes himself back against me with a groan. He’s no good in the morning even on a good day, and it’s a hundred times worse now that he’s running on four hours of sleep a night.

I’ve a hack for this, though. Pushing my nose into his hair and kissing his neck while I run my hand over his body is probably only good as a temporary solution, but so far it’s been working like a charm. (Also, his face might be the world champion of deadpan but his skin definitely isn’t, and I like watching him get gooseflesh.)

Baz groans again and rolls onto his back. “Stop being so bloody sexy and chipper.”

“We can’t _both_ be bastards in the morning,” I point out. “You’re--”

“Don’t say it,” he warns.

“Say what?”

“That I’m enough of a bastard for both of us.”

I pantomime zipping my mouth shut and Baz rolls his eyes.

“Mm mmf hmmm mm mmmf mhm mm-hmm?” I ask, lips still zipped. If he cracks a smile before 7am then he gets a reward, I’ve decided.

He presses his lips together. “Snow. It’s too early.”

“I said, do you want to kiss me or not?” I tickle him for good measure.

It works. He cracks a smile and then closes his eyes like he’s suffering. “You’re a bloody nightmare.” 

That might as well be a welcome parade in Baz World, so I roll onto him and we rub against each other until it’s unbearable and then I crawl down to give him his reward. 

It’s still a bit weird hearing him say my name, especially the way he does it now. His voice breaks and the “Simon” is almost lost in a whole mess of curses. I’m trying to get him to understand that he’s allowed to be greedy, so I grab his hand to bring it to the back of my head and he clutches my hair and comes immediately. 

Yesterday I made a joke about him being the best breakfast and he glowered and told me my bar was too low. He’s terrible at accepting compliments but I’ll wear him down eventually.

  
  


BAZ

* * *

At this point, not snogging Snow would be incomprehensible, but I also don’t know if I can do much more of this. Four hours of sleep is less than half of what I need to actually function, and I’ve more or less been running on adrenaline, sex, and coffee since Tuesday morning. I’m legitimately delirious.

Starting _and_ ending my day with Snow’s hands all over me before he swallows me down like I’m his last fucking meal is...well, it’s a lot. It’s far more than I would have dared to imagine. His morning enthusiasm used to be insufferable until I was at the receiving end of it, and now it’s unbearable for a whole other set of reasons.

Today is no different. I’ve (almost) stopped overthinking how fast he can get me off in the mornings and have moved on to overthinking how long this whole thing is going to last before he inevitably realizes how much I care and fucks off. Or gets bored and fucks off. Either way.

When he’s done with me, he kisses up my whole body and lets me taste myself in his mouth. (I didn’t know that was a Thing either, until it happened. One time after he finished, he kept his face away from mine and made me say “please” twice before he let me kiss him and I still haven’t fully recovered.)

It takes a moment to collect myself and then I gently tip him over onto his back and grab him the way that he likes. I kiss him until he writhes and thrusts into my hand and huffs out a laugh with his face scrunched up as if in disbelief--a dead giveaway he’s over the edge, even if I couldn’t feel the evidence in the tense and release of his cock and the sudden heat of his come on my knuckles. He wipes my hand and his stomach with yesterday’s pants, then chucks them into his hamper without even looking and rolls onto his side to kiss my cheek. 

“I’m hungry,” he says.

I laugh. “You mean blowjobs aren’t as filling as buttered scones? Shocking.” 

“Ha,” he says sarcastically. Then: “ _Wait_ , I just thought of a joke. Baz: why are the two of us like scones and butter?” He already looks entirely too pleased with whatever direction he’s about to take this. 

“Ugh. Again--it’s too early for this,” I say. “But fine. Why?”

“Because whenever I’m on you, I melt.” He laughs at himself and pokes me in the chest a few times. “Get it?”

I roll my eyes and let half a smile out. “Unbelievable.” Melt? I make him _melt_? _Please--tell me more._

We shower together and lazily get each other off again, then kiss for an indeterminate amount of time against the vanity, wrapped in the same towel. I’ve never had so much dopamine in my system in my entire life. 

Regardless, my mood goes south as we get dressed and it hits me that it’s Friday, which means we have an entire weekend of free time ahead of us and we still haven’t talked about any of this. It feels perilous to bring it up. I’m afraid that if I poke it, the bubble will burst and I don’t want it to be my fault. If it’s going to end then I want it to end naturally because of Snow, so I can be righteously angry at him for it. 

It will make the fallout a lot easier to manage.

  
  


SIMON

* * *

Baz sends me off to breakfast while he waits five minutes. This is how we’ve been doing it since that first morning and it feels a little ridiculous, but since I’m still not sure how else to go about it, it will have to do.

I’ve been trying not to watch him in the dining hall, but it doesn’t always work. If I do look I do it fast, not because I’m worried we’ll be found out but because the longer I look at him the harder it is to think straight (pun intended, obviously). Anyway, I’m already constantly thinking about everything we’ve been doing together, and adding eye contact into that mix, well...it’s bloody distracting. 

Penny makes fun of me for it almost every day. “You do realize that you’re already the least subtle person in the world, right? You can’t just _badly act_ _subtle_ on top of that and expect it to look right.” Then she inevitably prods me to ‘just talk to him, Simon.’ 

I tell her I will, which at this point is starting to feel like a lie. 

I’m just working up to it, that’s all. Penny keeps insisting that Baz is mad about me, but he’s also prickly and impossible to read. Personally I think it seems like he’s not too interested in being seen with me, otherwise we wouldn’t be leaving at different times every morning. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that Baz thinks he’s better than everyone at this school, which is why he’s never been involved with anyone (publicly, at least) (which further proves my point). 

But also, why should I care? What we’re doing is fine. Talking is overrated, especially when there are so many other nice things we can do with our mouths. The snogging is well fun and if Baz wants to be fussed about whatever it is he’s fussed about, then fine. 

It’s fine. 

We also avoid getting back to the room at the same time, but that’s for practical reasons. Basically there’s no getting any homework done once we’re both there, so if I want to keep up with anything, I have to get everything done before he comes back. I’m usually back first because he has violin or football practice after class, or just makes himself scarce. I’ve been going to the common room to do my homework, otherwise it feels like I’m sitting around waiting for him (even though I mostly am). I suspect that he’s been doing the same thing, either in Dev and Niall’s room or the library. 

Today drags by horribly and Baz is even more scarce than usual. After classes, Penny and I do homework on the lawn until it starts to drizzle and then we go in for an early dinner. I’m glad for the rain but it puts Penny in a mood, so after we eat she stomps off to start her portion of a group project that’s due in three weeks, and I’m left on my own. 

I get a surprising amount of work done, and then remember that I need to find a book for a history paper. The library closes in thirty minutes but that’s still plenty of time, and the walk outside will be nice. Inclement weather is underrated in my opinion. I’d also like to prove my theory that this is where Baz hangs out when he’s avoiding me.

I find the book I need and then nose around the rest of the library, not even trying to be subtle about it. There’s no one else in the stacks but sure enough, I find Baz sitting in one of the little study rooms. He’s surrounded by homework and looks so surprised to see me I laugh.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. He looks half annoyed and half pleased, which I guess is kind of his baseline when it comes to me.

“Needed this for history.” I hold up the book and flop down on the chair next to him. It’s weird but nice to be in the same space and talking, outside of our room. “What are you working on?”

“Economics,” he says sourly. “But I’m almost done.”

“I’m leaving the rest of mine for the weekend,” I say. “I’m knackered.”

He makes a neutral sort of hum and looks down at his books. And fine, I admit it: I want to know what his weekend plans are and if they include me. Obviously, I don’t know how to ask. Also I don’t think we can make weekend plans together until there’s a “together” to make weekend plans _with._ I can hear Penny in my head practically shouting at me to use my words, but I ignore her.

Instead I bump his foot with mine. “There’s no one here, you know,” I say.

He looks at me, finally. “ _We’re_ here.” 

“Right. It’s just us.”

“Oh.” He glances out towards the main room and then back at me with one eyebrow raised. “What’s your point?”

I hook my foot around his ankle and grin. “Shut the door.”

He gets up so fast he almost knocks his chair over.

  
  


BAZ

* * *

Well, here we are again, returned to the scene of the (original) crime. This is a big reason I’ve been making such an effort to stay away from him until everything else is done: when he’s in the same space it’s impossible to think about anything else. He bloody _crackles_ with energy, and I’m the tosser who keeps touching the live wire, knowing full well it’s going to shock me every single time.

He hasn’t moved off his chair when I turn from the door, but he’s rotated it so he’s facing away from the table. His knees are slightly open and his trousers are snug around his thighs. It’s distracting but that’s fine--I’m done concentrating for the night. I walk over and stand in front of him, waiting for my cue. 

He grins up at me, closing his legs a bit and pulling at the backs of mine. “Come here.”

Come here where? Does he want me to sit on his lap? This is new. Feeling like an utter numpty, I straddle him and gingerly sit down. Snow runs his palms up my thighs and looks up at me with his lower lip caught in his teeth. It feels a bit like I’m about to give him a lap dance, and honestly from this angle I can see the appeal. Being up here is somehow vulnerable and dominant at the same time.

He grabs me by the front of my shirt so he can pull me down to meet him halfway, and then we’re all over each other again. He tastes like sour candy and his tongue is hot against mine. 

I grab his hair (I can’t not). “Don’t you dare make noise,” I say into his ear. Quietly, but I mean it. The last thing I want is for sodding Mr. Strauss to ruin the moment again.

Snow whines and goes limp for a moment, letting me pull his head back. _Well, alright then_. _If you insist._ His bared neck is soft and flushed, absolutely decadent between my teeth.

I don’t know why I suddenly feel so bold; I’ve certainly had Snow underneath me before. We’re constantly tussling at night, starting fights that aren’t really fights, just excuses to get into each other’s space until one of us inevitably gives in and we end up falling into bed. Or onto the floor. Or into the shower. 

We’ve covered a lot of ground since Monday night. 

All that to say, we trade off who gets to be in control, but most of the time I find myself pinned by the solid warmth of his body while he works me over. I have no complaints about that, obviously. But I’m enjoying being up here now. 

I’m just starting to wrap my head around the rest of the implications that straddling Snow carries (and what I might do with them) when the lights blink off and on twice, signaling that the library is about to close. Our time is up. 

“Not fair,” Snow pants against my shoulder. It feels like he’s holding onto me for dear life.

“We have a whole room of our own to do this in,” I point out. I’m half disappointed about leaving and half anxious that someone’s going to open the door at any minute. They do come round and check before locking up, and the study room doors don’t have locks for this exact straddley, gropey reason.

Snow huffs and bites my lip. “That’s not the same. You never sit on my lap in our room.”

“I don’t ‘ _never’_ ,” I say defensively. “More like you’ve never asked.”

“Fair enough.” He slides his hands around my waist again and grins. “You should sit in my lap more, Baz. Alright? Now kiss me.”

I can’t refuse him (I never can). So we kiss until the inevitable happens and there’s a soft knock on the door and I throw myself off of him a split second before Mr. Strauss pokes his head in.

“Closing up!” He says cheerfully. Mercifully he doesn’t seem to notice that he’s literally witnessing history repeating itself.

“Right!” Snow says. “We’re on our way.” 

In the five years we’ve been at Watford, this is only the second time ever that we’ve walked back to the room together. A lot has happened since Monday when Snow unceremoniously jumped on my back and let me carry him. Now, neither of us seems to know how to go from “might as well have been a lapdance in the library” to “two blokes in an undefined sexual situation walking across the lawn at night,” so it’s a bit awkward. But still nice. It’s dark out and raining lightly, and the air feels overwhelmingly autumnal in that sweet, nostalgic way that September is so good at. I’m making a point of not walking too close to Snow in case I forget myself and grab his hand, when he bumps into me with his whole arm. 

“Sorry,” he says, not looking at me. Then, just as I’m thinking how the brush of his hand feels a little too purposeful, he laces his fingers through mine and gives my hand a little swing. Like he’s making sure we’re firmly attached. 

I know full well how his hand feels--I’ve had both his hands all over almost every inch of my body at this point. But somehow I’m still unprepared. Maybe he can feel it because he glances over at me and loosens his grip like he’s giving me the option of letting go. Foolish boy.

“It’s--I just thought--I mean, since it’s dark…” he trails off and my chest tightens at how uncertain he sounds. He sounds like I feel.

I don’t know where Simon learned to be so comfortable with messiness; he’s always been brave in the face of uncertainty in a way that’s equal parts maddening and admirable. _Of course_ adding hand-holding into this equation when we haven’t even solved the basic problem is well within his comfort zone--but it’s far outside of mine at the moment. 

I just want to know what we _are_. I also want to know if there’s even enough of a “we” to be able to reasonably ask that question without (and why is this always my concern?) seeming desperate. 

He’s still holding my hand, but barely, and even in the dark I can tell he’s blushing. But I don’t know how to ask the question now and by the time I’ve decided that the best thing to do would be to just gather his fingers back up in mine and figure it out later, he’s already let my hand drop.

My arm falls to my side feeling about as hollow as I do and Snow puts his hands in his coat pockets and says nothing as he stares at the ground in front of him.

SIMON

* * *

I’m going to blame the rain for turning me into a sentimental git. I’m also still feeling a little giddy and bold from having had Baz in my lap--or I _was_ , before everything went south. Leave it to Baz to cock up a perfectly nice moment by being a sullen arse. 

Honestly I’m not really sure where to go from here. Casually going for a hand hold seemed like an easy intro into the whole “what are we” conversation, but his reaction makes me think that Penny was wrong. I assumed Baz and I were avoiding each other during school because it’s too easy to slip up and make a grab for each other. But maybe while I’ve been waiting to get publicly grabby until we decide to properly date, he’s trying to keep everything under wraps because he thinks he’s too posh to be seen with me. 

Is that even a thing that happens in real life? I’ve never dated anyone in school. I really don’t know. His family is bloody loaded, but so what? They’re not around to see who he happens to be having fun with. 

If you can even call it fun. 

I mean for one thing, we still fight--a lot. Because it’s hot and flirty and a very direct shortcut to getting into each other’s pants. He also takes the piss constantly and at my expense. And trying to avoid his eyes all day when all I want to do is snog him senseless is driving me mad. But besides that, he made me laugh so hard I cried three times this week, and then he put his goddamn violin fingers to work on me until I was absolute jelly. He calls me Simon sometimes and lets me be the big spoon. And he’s a really, really good kisser. So yeah, I would call it fun. 

But now somehow I’ve crossed some kind of stupid line, and it’s killed the fun. I don’t even bother to look at him because I already know his face will be unreadable.

We finally make it back to the dorm and he opens the door and holds it for me, then looks like he regrets it. He avoids my eyes as I pass and I just want to grab his face and yell or kiss away whatever this weirdness is, but that might actually be the worst way to try to solve this problem, so. The walk to our room is just awkward and silent.

The funny thing about our room is that ever since we started snogging, it’s taken on this whole new flavor. Just being in here, smelling Baz’s posh soap and seeing all the places where we’ve kissed gets me all fired up, and tonight is no different. As soon as we’re inside, I can feel my whole body actually flush. It’s too embarrassing to think about, so I throw my things on my bed and make a beeline for the shower. Since both yelling and kissing are out, maybe I can scrub the weirdness away instead.

As it turns out, I can’t. And I can’t remember the last time I overthought anything so hard. Or at all, if I’m being honest. By the time I’m done washing I’ve pushed aside all the other feelings so I can focus on being angry. It’s probably not the best long-term solution but at least I know what to do with anger; being angry is easy, and having to slog through the soup of the rest of my feelings is too much work right now. I’m just going to go out, shout at him about being a rich sodding bastard and a snob, and go to bed.

  
  


BAZ

* * *

I get all my stalking around and slamming done while Snow is in the shower, so I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. I can’t stand it when he’s quiet. It’s fucking unnatural. And the fact that it’s my fault makes it even worse. 

Unfortunately, I no longer know what to physically do with myself when Snow and I are fighting (which _is_ what we’re doing, even though it’s happening in the complete opposite way from how it usually does--namely, silently). In the end, I decide that lying on my bed and glaring at the ceiling is the proper thing to do. Which is where Snow finds me when he bursts out of the bathroom, naked to the waist with a towel around his neck, trailing steam and the scent of his appley shampoo like he’s personally out to get me.

He is, as it turns out, personally out to get me.

“I’m not going to keep this up if you’re going to be a bloody snob about it,” he says all in one breath, like he’s been saying it on a loop in his head for the past twenty minutes.

I’m so surprised I forget to be an ice queen and turn to look at him. “Excuse me?”

“Just--I thought--” His cheeks get pinker and he towels his hair violently and growls. “I mean--we don’t _have_ to do this! If you’d rather forget it and just carry on, fine.”

“Forget what?” Does he mean the attempted hand-holding? Or the fight? Probably not the fight, since he’s definitely in attack mode.

He sighs and rolls his eyes mightily. “Right. ‘Forget what.’ Okay.”

“You’re not making sense, Snow,” I say. I realize too late that what I should have said was, _I don’t understand_. 

“ _I’m_ not making sense?” he says incredulously. “How is that--are you--what--” He blusters himself to a stop, sits down on his bed, and immediately gets back up. “Listen. I really thought we were doing this because...I mean, snogging is supposed to be fun. It’s all just a way for two people to pass the time, yeah? Because it’s _fun_. So if I’m not someone you want to have fun with then we should probably just quit while we’re ahead.”

I’m still trying to catch up, and now also frustrated. “Snow, I don’t know how it’s possible but you’re making even less sense than usual. And I resent how much you’re using the word ‘fun’.”

“Oh fuck you, Baz! I--”

“ _What_? You what, Snow?” I want to shake him. I sit up and pivot so I can look at him. “What in the bloody hell are you talking about? No, you’re not fun! You’re--” I stop, because for once I don’t actually have an adjective at hand. “Infuriating” would be accurate, but not entirely. Nervy. Relentless. Irresistible. Hot (literally and figuratively). Criminally good at kissing. 

I need help.

“I’m what?” he asks, scowling.

“Bloody infuriating!” So I’ve decided to go with that one, then. Fucking wonderful. 

Snow rolls his eyes. “Yeah, alright. I get it, Baz, I’m a pain in your arse. What a surprise to hear you say it,” he says. The sarcasm is heavy with this one.

“That’s not what I meant, you arse!” I finally raise my voice slightly and that gets his attention. “No--I mean, it is and it isn’t. You’re just so-- _you_. Like _all the time_ . And it’s infuriating because you never think about the consequences of anything! What the hell did you think was going to happen once you started snogging your roommate who’s been--” _in love with you for five years_ “--your enemy for five years?” 

“Actually, technically we’re shagging,” Snow interjects, sticking his chin out. Unbelievable.

“We’re not _shagging_ ,” I say impatiently. “We only--I haven’t--” I’m about to say that I personally haven’t actually progressed beyond using hands with him, but there’s literally no reason to be splitting hairs about that right now. I suppose it just seems easier than trying to get to the bottom of what this is really about, although prolonging the inevitable seems rather masochistic at this point. Then again, that’s more or less my personal brand so why change now?

“Blowjobs are sex, Baz,” Snow says, somehow sounding both earnest and belligerent at the same time. “Why else would they call it oral _sex,_ yeah?”

I growl. “Uuugh _fine_ , we’re _shagging_ ,” I say. It falls out of my mouth and takes on a whole new shape in my ears. Simon Snow and I are _shagging_. My neck gets hot and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I don’t blush.

“Ok. So what the hell are you trying to say, then?” he says. He looks like he’s hoping for a very specific answer and I don’t think he’s going to like the one I have.

“Just...I think we have very different ideas about what this is.”

“That’s kind of what _I_ was trying to say,” he says heavily. _Fuck_. 

“So say it.” I need to hear how he’s going to explain it. 

He takes a breath and starts pacing. “I’m a literal orphan, Baz. I basically just have Penny and her family and that’s it. So if that’s not good enough for you, then…” He trails off and looks at me with his mouth set stubbornly. 

“Good enough?” My brain is still swimming. 

“Yeah just--I get it, you’re a fucking Grimm-Pitch and I’m not--or I guess _this_ isn’t anything, really. I know it’s not.” _There it is._ I hold my breath as he rushes on. “I mean, we’ve been shagging for a week, it’s not like I want you to start planning a bloody royal wedding or something, and I’m not even that good of a boyfriend, I don’t think. But that’s not--I mean, the point is, I’m really shit at being subtle. Ask Penny. Or anyone. I just--” He stops, and I can feel my expectations shifting ever so slightly as I untangle this mess of new information he’s thrown at me. 

“Just what?” I ask. I’m tired.

He scrubs his hands through his hair and growls again. “I want to hold your hand and not...I don’t know. Not just shag in secret because you have a reputation to uphold or whatever.” 

His face is very, very red and he won’t look at me as he sits back down on his bed.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding for what feels like the entire week. My heart is going to beat right out of my chest.

“Simon.” He still won’t look up so I say it again. “Simon. I don’t have a bloody ' _reputation'_ to uphold.”

“Yes you do,” he says, obstinate to the bitter end.

“No, I don’t.” Not here at least. There are literal centuries of family politics we’re going to have to wade through if this actually turns into something, but I push that aside for now. One step at a time. “You’re so thick sometimes, do you know that?” 

  
  


SIMON

* * *

I don’t think that was the type of talk Penny had in mind at all, but we’re here now, so sod it. I look up at Baz and he’s glowering, because of course he is.

“You don’t have to keep insulting me,” I mutter.

“I’ll never stop,” Baz says. “Because you’re ridiculous. But that’s why--” he pauses and sighs. 

“Why what?”

“Why I would also like to hold your hand,” he says, sounding resigned. 

That wasn’t what I was expecting. “What?”

“You heard me, Snow.” He’s glowering again but his ears are pink. 

“Yes, but...then why have you been so bloody weird all week?”

“I just--” Baz waves his hand dismissively. “You don’t take anything seriously or think about things at all, ever. It just seemed...easier if I didn’t either.”

“That’s a lie,” I say. I’m going to get him for this. “You’re a liar.”

“Excuse me?” Baz says indignantly. 

I get up and cross over to where he’s sitting so I can bump his knees with mine. “Yeah. You’re a bloody liar, _Basilton_.” I push his shoulder a couple times until he looks up, still glowering. “I take you seriously and I think about you all the time. Literally, _all_ _the_ _time_. You drive me mad and I hate--”

Baz cuts me off by standing up and smashing his face into mine, and I grab him tight enough to make him understand I’m never letting go. 

We forget about talking for the rest of the night.


End file.
